


The Seven-Day Virgin

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

* * *

The first time the subject came up they were in the sitting room. 

"Was it true, then, what Irene said about you and Mycroft," John asked. He was in his chair, laptop on his knees, but his attention was on his flatmate across the room, sitting at the desk and ignoring the tea and toast John had set at his elbow earlier this morning. Sherlock had his own laptop for once, probably only because John was using his, and he was focused on the screen rather than typing, his hands folded, pressed lightly to his mouth. 

"Hm?" Sherlock lifted his hands long enough to provide a sound of acknowledgement, which John took as encouragement.

"Was it true?" he repeated. "She said Mycroft was an iceman and you were—" John trailed off, didn't say it aloud. Mycroft had given him the file and it had been relentlessly explicit, not a detail excised. He wasn't fooled into thinking he had any level of access to classified material other than what Mycroft provided him. Details on Sherlock, though, Mycroft offered as a matter of course. At first, John had thought Mycroft was trying to frighten him off with lurid details of drug use, detoxing, days and weeks spent in rehab only to begin the whole thing again some months later. 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that Mycroft had been trying to brace him for what might happen. Forewarned was forearmed and all that. John comforted himself with the knowledge that if Mycroft hadn't started their association by being a sociopathic prat in his own right, John would have been more agreeable to the exchange of information. Easier, too, was the realization that Sherlock knew that John had read all the files, that he knew all the gory little minutiae of his addiction. He'd never hidden any of the documents and considering that Mycroft had couriered them to John right here at the flat, it seemed as though neither of them had any concerns about it. 

His drug use had been laid out in precise medical terms, flatly outlining Sherlock's life over the course of two years before rehab had stuck and that was the information John had received. Occasionally, he offered files about cases, and the little tidbits of insight into Sherlock were all well and good.

Other details, though…

"You're asking if I'm a virgin," Sherlock stated, impassively.

Said like that, it did seem a bit invasive. "I guess I am, yeah," John said, considering.

"Why?" Sherlock finally looked at him and at times like this John felt like his gaze was boring into his skull, examining his thoughts as they came to him with uncomfortable scrutiny. 

"I—never mind," John muttered and he looked back at his computer. "None of my business, really."

"No, it isn't. Why do you want to know?" Sherlock continued mercilessly, "Something else for your blog?"

"What?" John blinked, more than a little horrified, "No, of course not!"

Sherlock didn't visibly relax, nothing about his posture or expression changed and yet, John still felt it as though it were a physical force. "Then why?"

"I—just forget it," John said, frustrated. How was he supposed to explain his interest without making it sound unsavoury or lurid? It wasn't like that and he didn't have the words to express it. Sherlock might be interested in all sorts of mysteries, cracking the strangest cases, solving the impenetrable crimes. And John loved it, followed along after him but the case he was trying to solve, the mystery that really interested him, was sitting at the table right now staring at him like he was a bug twisting on a pin. 

He took up his typing again, pecking out word after word about their last case that had absolutely nothing to do with his flatmate's sexuality, thank you, when Sherlock finally broke the silence with a single sharp word. 

"Yes."

John startled, adding a series of y's and d's to his paragraph as his fingers clattered against the keyboard. He looked up, blinking, but Sherlock had already returned his attention to his own computer. His hands were folded under his chin, his eyes steady and John wasn't entirely sure he'd actually heard him correctly. 

"Yes?" John repeated, softly, questioningly. 

"Yes. I am," Sherlock said and his hands unfolded as though from prayer, dropping down to his keyboard as he started typing with a fury that John could only match if he didn't mind endless pages of gibberish added to his blog. 

"Yes," John echoed, under his breath. "Right. Well. That's all right, then."

"So glad to have your approval," Sherlock replied but it was absent, without any trace of rancour and so John ignored it, smiling a little to himself as he informed his readers about the details of their latest case. 

 

* * *

The second time the subject came up was just after they were both sitting on the same hospital bed splattered with three different kinds of blood, two of which belonged to them. The third donor was currently in another room, handcuffed to his bed.

Lestrade was actually shouting at them from the look of him, or so John supposed. He was still half-deaf from the explosion and what little hearing he did have seem to consist of a constant ringing sound. From his arm flapping and the spit flying from his lips, though, he'd say Lestrade was having a right proper row with them right now and John was sorry to be missing it. Donovan seemed to be enjoying it from her position in the corner, arms folded over her chest as she watched like this was a particularly good round of footy with the local boys. 

He did manage to pick up a few words, important seeming ones, like civilians and explosions and what he'd do to their arses if they pulled a stunt like this again. It was only when Lestrade rounded on him personally that John pulled his expression into something he hoped was close to remorseful. 

"And you! Him, I expect it from but you-- I thought you had more sense than this, John!" Lestrade snarled and he looked nothing more than like John's da, lecturing him after a scuffle at school. It was so familiar, right down to the aching nose, the blood drying on his face and the, 'oh, so disappointed in you' look on Lestrade's. 

He might have been able to pass the first sound off as a snorty sort of inhale; his nose had been bleeding quite freely when they'd first arrived and his breathing did sound rather snotty and painful. The second, though, was never going to fly as anything less than a giggle and in less time than it had taken him and Sherlock to nearly get themselves killed, John was howling, sprawling into Sherlock as huffs and bursts of laugher choked free of him. And of course Sherlock was no help at all, he barely had a modicum of self-control on days they hadn't just nearly died and John laughing set him off like a chain reaction, the two of them giggling together on a hospital gurney with the blood on them still wet. 

A glance at Lestrade showed that the Inspector was goggling at them, mouth agape, and that set him off again, John laughing until he couldn't breathe, again, second time this night he couldn't breathe only this time was much more enjoyable, what with no wall falling on him and Sherlock to nearly flatten them. 

"You—" Lestrade bit off whatever he was going to say and John was genuinely sorry for it. Whatever it had been would surely have been a simply brilliant display of temper and swearing, considering the shade of red that was currently rising up from under Lestrade's collar. 

He spun on his heel away from them, gesturing curtly at Donavan before he stormed out the door, her right behind. Tomorrow, John knew, there would be statements to be made and paperwork that Sherlock would ignore until John filled it out, but today, he was laughing through the aching pain in his ribs and head, his entire body was like a gigantic bruise scattered with abrasions. He was giggling madly even though it hurt and Sherlock was next to him, alive and breathing and laughing right along because they were all mad here, weren't they? Christ, yes, they were. 

Their laughter had trickled back down into the occasional chuckling breath mingled with shared smirking by the time the nurse returned. They were given release forms to sign and John had a large plastic bag filled with the pieces of his clothing that he wasn't currently wearing. The scrubs John had been given were a kind alternative to the mud-soaked and blood-spattered jumper and trousers he'd been wearing.

Wheelchairs should have been the standard to transport them to the front door and that they weren't offered gave John a bit of a pause. Someone would be in a good spot of trouble over that. Not that _he_ protested, already on his feet to chase Sherlock out the door. His coat swirled at the calves as he turned a corner and Sherlock seemed unconcerned that the length of it was besmirched with mingled speckles from earth and person. 

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, blithely, and if he was walking a bit gingerly only John would notice. A normal person would think he was only shortening his strides so a good friend could keep up. John wasn't normal, no shade of it, and so he knew better, and he wasn't at all disturbed to see Sherlock knew his way through the winding corridors. Probably had every Emergency Department in London charted out somewhere in his head, along with all the streets and traffic lights.

"Not sure," John rubbed his sore ribs tenderly. "What sort of takeaway goes with a near-death experience?"

Sherlock gave him a pitying glance, "I thought we'd established early on that Chinese was the appropriate venue." 

That set him off again and John had to lean against the wall as he laughed, snickering painfully. It set of warning flares off pain in his ribs that shot straight through the layers of medication. He could have sooner performed surgery with the scalpel between his teeth than not laugh though, and Sherlock was right there with him, leaning against him as the two of them cackled like loons in the middle of the hospital corridor. 

John looked up at him, his split lip smarting from his grin, and said, "You do know you are—"

He trailed off, whatever he'd been about to say forgotten because he hadn't realized just how close Sherlock was to him until he'd looked up at the same moment Sherlock turned his head to look down at him. Their mouths were close enough that John could feel Sherlock's breath, taste the taint of pain killers on it, the apple juice Sherlock had chase the pills down with. He was breathing against John's face and they were both alive, not dead at all, and adrenaline was thrumming as warmly through his veins as his own blood. Dimly, John realized he could hear the beat of his own heart, drumming in his ears alongside the high whine of explosive-induced tinnitus. 

Sherlock was looking at him, the grey of his eyes obscured by the wideness of his pupils. Pharmacological reaction, John knew; they were both high on a cocktail of legal drugs and exhilaration, and Sherlock's mouth was right there, teeth still faintly stained with his own blood. 

His mouth tasted like coppery apples, his breath pushing softly between John's lips as he exhaled and John only realized they were kissing when Sherlock's hands touched his face, long fingers trembling. Not pushing him away, not holding on, and his mouth was still beneath John's, lips together and unmoving.

Soft, John registered hazily, soft and lovely, and he didn't pull away, just wanted to feel Sherlock breathing into him. Alive, they were both alive, and long moments passed of the two of them simply breathing, their mouths touching in an absurdly chaste kiss that somehow made perfect sense. 

It was only when John started to pull away, regretfully, aware that insanity aside, they were still in a hospital corridor, that Sherlock came to life beneath his hands. Lips parting, his tongue sliding curiously against John's mouth and when he let his own lips open, it slid inside, testing his own with odd little flicks and glides. Of course, of course kissing Sherlock would be more like some sort of strange experiment and suddenly this was a great deal less about proving to himself that Sherlock was breathing and a considerable amount more about Sherlock suddenly wrapped around him, arms tight against John's bruised ribs and his mouth a little slobbery and gloriously eager. 

Hospital. Right. 

"Sher—Sherlock," John managed to pull away long enough to gasp and was more than a little surprised to find that Sherlock took that as an invitation to explore the line of his jaw with his teeth. Good god, was he licking the scratches on John's face? He couldn't even be ashamed at the bright surge that sent through him. "Not here," John mumbled, although he was resisting a great deal less than he should. 

Instantly, Sherlock's head shot up and the little cuts on John's left cheek throbbed sadly at losing their chance.

"No, no, of course not, not here," Sherlock muttered, and John was forced to stumble into motion when Sherlock snatched up his hand, dragging him along through the corridor. Left, another left, and then Sherlock was pulling him through a door. He caught a glance at the sign that indicated this was a solo, gender-neutral bathroom and then the door was closing behind him. 

The heavy sound of it shutting was loud as a gunshot, clapping straight through the ringing in John's ears. It slapped through his brain like waking up from a dream and John might have even tried to protest, as always the absurdly weak voice of reason from within their communicable insanity. Might have, only Sherlock had him slammed back against the door before he'd done more than drawn a breath, his newly inhaled air leaving him in a startled gust as Sherlock ducked his head and pressed their mouths together again. 

He smelled like smoke, charcoal-filthy, mingled with the rusty iron tang of blood, the flavour of it carried into John through his own sharp huff through his nose, reinforced by Sherlock's tongue against his own. Smoke and blood, apples and narcotics, a wild blender-drink of fucking crazy, was kissing Sherlock, all messy saliva and wet lips. 

Sherlock seemed like he didn't know how to make himself short enough to make kissing John easy, the tilt of his head awkward and wrong. Until John finally reached up and slid his hands into Sherlock's hair and tilted his head for him. Thick curls twined through his fingers, gritty and filthy with smoke, dirt, god knew what else, and their teeth clicked together once, painfully, and then…oh, god. Perfect, hot, eager mouth on his own, their tongues sliding over and under. Wet enough to be slick, hot enough to make John tip his head up in a silent plea for more. 

Dimly, John realized he could hear a bit, soft, thick sounds penetrated the fog surrounding his hearing, and he was faintly embarrassed. Christ, it was just a kiss, a filthy, perfect kiss, but still…then it clicked in his head, a switch turning on and he was abruptly aware it was _Sherlock_ making those sounds. Sherlock, whose hands were clenched tight in the loose fabric of John's borrowed scrubs, Sherlock who was kissing him hard enough that John banged his head back against the door and any stars he hadn't used already trying to get a concussion earlier danced in front of his eyes. 

Sherlock who was shaking, sucking in sharp breaths of air, Sherlock who was scrunching down against him and Jesus, he was just awful at this, gangly-tall and John squirmed, helping Sherlock fit himself against the smaller line of John's body until he could feel the firm pressure against his belly, Sherlock's cock hard against him through his trousers. 

It's all right, John couldn't say, there was no speaking here because Sherlock was barely allowing him to get enough air to breathe, much less produce words. His lips felt bruised, each kiss drawing a wince, and John pressed back into each and every one. Petted Sherlock's hair, tried to soothe him as he whimpered, the upturned collar of his coat rough against John's exposed wrists. 

The sudden introduction of a knee between John's legs finally made him wrench his mouth free, gasping in a startled, garbled sound as Sherlock pressed his long thigh up against John's crotch. Oh, oh, fuck, John didn't, couldn't say, tipping his head up to stare at the too-bright fluorescent lights above them, riding the awkward, stumbling rhythm that Sherlock offered. The hard slide of leg against him, Sherlock's hips moving in stilted little thrusts, rubbing and pushing, and John was only wearing thin scrubs, no barrier at all to any of this. 

He was trapped, surrounded by Sherlock and lingering smog of smoke, clogged memory of being buried alive, choking through the haze of brick dust and the thick taste of his own blood until they'd been pulled clear. Sherlock had been there then, too, on top of him from beneath a pile of rubble and he'd tucked John's head against his chest with a hand on the back of his neck. His hand was there now, sliding up and John followed its insistent tug blindly, lifted his head and found Sherlock's mouth with his own. Tasted his breath, tasted the sweetness of mingled apples and blood as he rocked against Sherlock's thigh and came. 

"Oh…" he felt it against his mouth, teeth scraping together as Sherlock shuddered, teeth sinking briefly into John's sore lip sending a wash of fresh iron-flavoured heat into John's mouth. His own blood spilled half a dozen times over now and John only swallowed it away, let Sherlock settle into trembling against him.

Orgasm was nearly as good a painkiller as any opiates but the effects were much briefer. Every single injury John had sustained this evening, beginning with an explosion and ending in a public bathroom, were starting to come to life, throbbing earnestly. The door, which had seemed comfortable enough during the glow of mutual insanity, was now extremely hard and uncomfortable in the light of John's bruised ribs. Sherlock was still tight against him, pressing their foreheads together, his breathing slowly easing into something resembling normal.

It was only when Sherlock lifted his head that reality clicked back into place with an almost audible snap. He didn't step back, their faces close enough that John had to blink a bit against the threatening blur. A bright flush of red was still high on Sherlock's cheeks, his eyes were vastly wide, lips bitten and swollen. John had to swallow hard, forcing back the dozen or so urges that had just leapt up in the back of his mind because Sherlock looked so _shocked_ , lines at the corners of his eyes smoothed away and the illusion of youth nearly made John cringe. Oh, Christ, just what had they done here?

"Sherlock," John said, distantly amazed at the calmness of his own voice. "We discussed before that you were a virgin."

"I haven't forgotten in the span of less than a week," Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and finally stepped back, hands wandering aimlessly through the air before he clasped them together; a familiar pose of thoughtfulness, his fingertips pressing against his lips, only John had never seen it before with those lips softened, kiss-bruised. 

"Mmhmm. Right," John had to clear his own throat, mentally blaming it on smoke inhalation rather than…anything else. "So you haven't had sex."

"Hadn't," Sherlock corrected. The shockiness in his eyes was easing, the lines of his face smoothing back to normal. "That is the standard definition of virgin, I believe."

John took a deep breath, let it out slowly. That was an argument for another time. "Have you ever kissed anyone?"

Just the way Sherlock hesitated, the calculating light in his eyes, made John's stomach sink down to his heels, "Your mum doesn't count, Sherlock," he said, tightly. "Or any other friends or relatives giving you a Christmas peck. I mean a kiss, a real kiss, like we were just doing."

Beneath the fine layer of soot and bruises, Sherlock's face was impassive, "If you're finished qualifying the question, then no. No one else has ever kissed me like we were just doing."

That was just exactly the opposite of what John had been hoping to hear and he covered his face with his hands, groaning, "Oh, God."

"John—" The thin thread of exasperation he could hear was not helping a bit. They were standing together in a public bathroom at the hospital, both of them covered in three different blood types, soot, filth, and now, of all times, they'd decided to add a mutual exchange of semen to the mix. He was afraid to look down at his borrowed scrubs, already knew just what kind of wet splotches he'd see soaking through; medical school wasn't all that long ago.

He could feel the night starting to pile up on top of his nerves, dark spots starting to waver in front of his eyes and instantly, hands were firm on his upper arms. "Deep breaths," Sherlock commanded.

It was incredible, really, how sudden resentment could stifle an emotional breakdown. John wrenched away from him, ducking under his arm to lean against the only remaining wall that wasn't occupied by the toilet or sink. He glared back at Sherlock balefully, "I can resect someone's bowel after they've been gutted with explosives, I know how not to faint."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, "You aren't much for pillow talk, though. Must we stay here all night or can you have your conniption later? I'd like to get changed and out for dinner before the late shifts start occupying the tables."

Really, it was like having two separate conversations. "You—" John sputtered, "Dinner? That's what you're thinking about right now, dinner."

"Yes, aren’t you hungry?" He sounded honestly perplexed and John had no doubt that he was. The case was finished, they'd lived to fight another day, and concluded with a quick rub off amongst the porcelain. In Sherlock's mind, it was time for Chinese food and conversation. Obviously. "Why are you so upset about this, _Doctor_? I'm sorry I don't have a bowel for you to resect but all things considered, I suspect I'll have a chance for you to try again sometime."

John's hair was entirely too short to pull out in frustration but Sherlock's was starting to look tempting. "Maybe, just maybe, I'm upset because it appears I just took your virginity in a dirty bathroom in public?"

"This bathroom is perfectly clean," Sherlock retorted, gesturing at the sparkling white fixtures, the tidily swept floor. "And while my virginity or lack thereof, is currently a subject for debate, it is, or was, in fact, mine, so I can't begin to fathom why _you_ are so upset about it."

"Oh, why do I try?" John groaned. He looked up at the fluorescent lights and said it directly to them in the hopes that perhaps if the other living person here couldn't understand him, perhaps the inanimate objects might step up. True to their nature, they had no reply and he was forced to ask his questions of Sherlock. Who, also unfortunately, remained true to his nature as well. "I am here, aren't I? You _can_ see me, can't you, I'm not some figment wandering about in dirty scrubs."

It was rare that Sherlock ever stared at John as though he was the insane one and John treasured each occasion, marked it on a mental calendar. He added this one, right alongside his previous notation of First Incident of Minor Shagging; Hospital Bathroom. 

Sherlock recovered from his lapse all too quickly, venturing with uncharacteristic concern, "You did tell the doctor that you didn't hit your head, is it troubling you now? Perhaps we should go back--"

"No, no," John spared a glance down at the crotch of his borrowed scrubs and didn't bother hiding his wince. Ah, well, wouldn't be the first time he'd ever scurried shamefully from a hospital. "Let's just go, dinner sounds wonderful. You're buying," he added, as he opened the door and peered out. No one around, perhaps God did smile down at him from time to time.

He kept that thought close to him as Sherlock followed him in blissful silence, taking the lead towards what John sincerely hoped was the doors to the outside. Freedom was within sight when someone shouted Sherlock's name and he stopped, no, no, turning towards the sound of it. 

Lestrade. Of course it was. John withdrew any and all charitable thoughts he'd had about higher deities. 

"Inspector," Sherlock nodded at him civilly and didn't even seem to notice John crowding in close to him, taking what advantage he could of having a tall friend with a good coat to hide behind. 

Lestrade looked considerably calmer and John didn't need to be a detective to notice the sharp scent of cigarette smoke emanating from him. Honestly, Sherlock was a one-man force in keeping the tobacco companies in business, dragging in clientele from all angles. 

"All right," Lestrade sighed out, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck with something resembling embarrassment. "Look, come down to the station tomorrow and we'll get the statements and paperwork sorted." He said it to the both of them but it was John he was looking at because that was a lesson they'd all learned a long time ago. It was the cases that Sherlock loved; getting through the tedium of paperwork was John's area and all of them knew it.

"Of course, Inspector, John and I will be by in the morning," Sherlock said smoothly, as though it wasn't a bald-faced lie and John wouldn't have to drag him down there, sulking and morose. 

"Uh huh," Lestrade leaned a bit to look around Sherlock at John, who was standing firmly behind Sherlock where he was trying to beam a vibe of 'nothing to look at here, Detective, nothing at all' straight into Lestrade's head. A shame it appeared that his telepathic abilities weren't going to manifest for him just now, either. Today was simply full of oddities and disappointment, it would seem. 

"We'll be there," John agreed, hastily, would have agreed to a full cavity search at this point to get his ruined clothes out of the sight of their main connection to Scotland Yard who was nowhere near as unobservant as Sherlock maintained he was.

"I don't know why you always wait for John to agree, he's the one who has trouble getting out of bed in the morning," Sherlock said blithely, "Never fear, Inspector, I'll have him up and dressed and in your office promptly at nine. Evening!" He was already striding away, calling the last over his shoulder. John darted hastily after him so he wouldn't have to look at the way Lestrade's mouth dropped open.

He took the fact that the Earth didn't open up and swallow him whole to spare him all this as further proof that there was no God.

* * *


	2. Day Two

Day Two  
  
John's room at Baker Street had come with a double bed and sinfully comfortable sheets. He'd never asked if had been Sherlock or Mrs Hudson who had furnished the flat, although neither would surprise him. Sherlock had a ludicrous amount of possessions for a man who didn't have a steady job.  
  
It was a welcome change from the narrow bed he'd had at his temporary flat and miles better than the army cots that had been standard in Afghanistan, and normally when John collapsed onto it after night of chasing criminals through the seedy underbelly of London he had no trouble sleeping the sleep of the just.   
  
Normally he hadn't also had a bit of a shag with his flatmate earlier in the evening, though, and exhausted as he was, well-dosed with pain killers to keep the ache of his bruised ribs at a minimum, John couldn't drift off. The bluish glow of his alarm clock obediently counted down the minutes for him and at 3:01 a.m., John rolled over, again, with an impatient sigh, tugging his pillow over his head as he tried to stop thinking about the night.   
  
Dinner had been…strange, as strange as their first meal together had been with Angelo playing an Italian cupid and Sherlock eyeing the street for a serial killer while John made awkward conversation. Orgasm hadn't changed Sherlock's desire for their traditional near-death dinner fare and they'd shared a cab back to the flat, John curled mutely into one corner, watching the blur of streets and shops outside the window, his thoughts awhirl. Broaching the subject foremost in his mind had not seemed particularly enticing with a bored cabbie as audience and Sherlock hadn't been interested in talking.  
  
Not true; Sherlock was always interested in talking in cabs, just not about the subjects that John would have preferred. By the time they'd gotten back to the flat to change, Sherlock had informed him about the kind of detonator their bomber had used and about the psychological profile of most bombers while John tried not to be horrified at the faint appreciation in Sherlock's voice as he spoke about their meticulous nature, their attention to detail.  
  
"That they use to kill people, Sherlock," John pointed out, quietly, the first words he'd spoken since they left the hospital.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "Like most people, they misappropriate their best skills. It's a shame our local criminal was so eager to move past rubbish bins and skips; if he'd planned better like most of that ilk, we wouldn't have stopped him so easily."  
  
"That and his preference for organically grown bananas…"  
  
It was something of a relief that reminder launched Sherlock into a different segue on the history of banana shipping. The last was an honest surprise to John; Sherlock couldn't tell him who the Prime Ministers of the last century were but he knew about bananas. He'd was honestly curious why Sherlock had retained that titbit, some banana smuggling scheme he'd managed to overthrow? Not that it hadn't been useful in finding the location of their rubbish bin bomber; the man left one banana peel at a scene and it had been all Sherlock needed.   
  
John supposed he'd have to rehash this all out with Lestrade tomorrow, along with another scolding. He didn't really blame Lestrade for being less than pleased to find he and Sherlock had gone to confront the bomber on their own. At least the explosion had been contained to the man's run-down flat, although how Sherlock had connected the bananas with the man was still a bit of a mystery to John. He supposed he'd hear about that the next day as well.   
  
At Baker Street, John had gone to his room first and let Sherlock have the shower, digging through his rapidly shrinking allotment of clothing for something clean and neither blood-stained nor charred. He added 'do laundry' to his mental list for the week.   
  
Sherlock was already out of the bathroom and changing by the time John came back down. He took a minute to wash up and changed into his fresh clothes, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. His hair was still damp and spikey, and the scattering of bruises on his face from his collision with a falling brick wall were shading into deeper yellowish-purple with the passage of time.   
  
He just looked like himself, John Watson, M.D., formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and now, it would seem, seducer of genius virginal flatmates in public toilets. Of all titles he'd thought to be adding to his name, that was not one of them.   
  
All right, perhaps seducer was the wrong word for it. After all, he hadn't done much seducing at all. Mostly, he'd been dragged about, tossed up against walls, and then, orgasms. John couldn't even say for certain he had kissed Sherlock first. Thus far, the order of his evening was explosion, doctors, Lestrade, bathroom, and orgasms. And it wasn't over yet.  
  
Sherlock was waiting impatiently by the time John came out of the bathroom, already be-scarfed and be-coated…wait. John gave the suspiciously clean coat a narrow look. Did Sherlock actually have a spare coat at the flat?  
  
He might have asked and earned either a withering look from Sherlock at the obviousness of his question or perhaps an approving one for his observation, only Sherlock was already walking out the door with said coat swirling behind him in an enigmatic and attractive way.  
  
John groaned to himself. Oh, do stop it, he told his brain sternly. There were several conversations to be had about their state of being before he was allowed to ogle Sherlock lasciviously.   
  
Conversations that were quite conspicuously not happening. It didn't happen in the foyer at Baker Street, didn't happen on the walk to their favourite local Chinese restaurant, and continued not happening as they stood waiting for their usual table to be cleared. It wasn't the best Chinese food John had ever had but it was quite good, it was close, and as Sherlock had stated, there was something to be said for tradition.  
  
John was hardly up to the standards of the world's only consulting detective when it came to observing details. He'd be the first to admit that and he would stand stoically while Sherlock enthusiastically agreed with that statement. In his favour, however, he had been in a number of relationships and when their hostess came to lead them to their table it did not escape his notice that Sherlock set a hand on him, automatically, to draw him along.   
  
On its own that meant nothing; Sherlock was not shy about touching, willing to lean over John's shoulder to read whatever he was writing, sprawled out on the sofa with his feet pressing against John's leg. This touch was different, one simple touch collecting him up, a hand lingering possessively at the small of his back. Not conclusive evidence by any means but certainly something.  
  
And when John figured out exactly what he wanted to do about that possessive little touch, Sherlock would be the first to know.   
  
Dinner was a simple enough affair; after the Chinese circus case Sherlock had been determined to learn Chinese, Mandarin and Cantonese respectively, and practised it frequently with their elderly hostess, leaving John resigned to life without a menu and eating whatever Sherlock deduced he was craving on any given night. She tolerated it fairly enough, John assumed, and only occasionally corrected his pronunciation. Sherlock, who normally hated being proven wrong, swiftly accepted her corrections and she smiled at him like a proud mother at her child when he parroted them back to her. If he hadn't had physical proof otherwise, John would have thought Sherlock's tastes ran along the lines of middle aged women. In reality it seemed more like Sherlock was a mummy's boy without a mummy.  
  
All in all, it was absurdly normal, for them. Dinner, conversation with minimal discussion about corpses per John's previously laid down rules, and fortune cookies at the end. If John hadn't paused in between bites of fried rice, remembering the sounds Sherlock had made echoing in a tiny bathroom, if he hadn't jerked every time Sherlock's feet bumped his under the table, each touch crackling like lightening in Sherlock's pale eyes, John might have thought the entire thing was a particularly vivid paracetamol hallucination.  
  
Back at the flat, it had been a round of mumbled good nights before John climbed the stairs to his room, only to find himself in his sinfully comfortable bed, utterly unable to sleep.   
  
Sherlock had asked him to wait to have his conniption; it was only a shame it had decided to pop to life at arse o'clock in the morning. Him and Sherlock, in a hospital bathroom, having a snog and a grope. Him. And Sherlock. His flatmate. His male flatmate. Grope and snog.   
  
He supposed he should be upset about it. Worried, perhaps, over the state of their friendship. Breaking down into some crisis about his sexuality, fretting over kissing a bloke, wondering about whether he was bisexual or had he been gay his entire life, hiding his true nature behind a few shags with women.   
  
He probably shouldn't be lying awake thinking about the taste, the feel, of Sherlock's mouth but there you have it. John never could do anything the normal way.   
  
As conniptions went, this one had fallen mostly flat.   
  
The only real question seemed to be did he want to continue with this?  
  
After a laughable short mental debate, the answer he kept coming back to really fell along the lines of 'might as well'. All in all, it was nearly anti-climactic. He and Sherlock already shared a flat, they already lined up their toothbrushes next to each other. They ate dinner together more often than not and breakfast when Sherlock felt like eating it. They tended to spend their days, and their nights, together, as well as most of the time in between. Adding in a bit of shagging almost seemed like a forgone conclusion.   
  
All that was left was finding out just what Sherlock wanted out of this. Sherlock, who'd spent the bulk of his life as a virgin. The thought that he might not want to tack on shagging to their normal activities…all right, their bizarre, dangerous activities that had nearly gotten them blown up, no point in splitting hairs…was more terrifying to John than the act itself.   
  
There was nothing for it. They were just going to have to talk about it in the morning or rather, after sleeping since morning was already well established. John firmly closed his eyes and commanded his brain to sleep and after another wistful memory of Sherlock's mouth against his own, he did.   
  
It was only just past dawn when he woke again. One year as a civilian hadn't dismissed the habit of living on military time and John was wide awake by the time the sun crept in through the slats in his window blinds despite his broken hours of sleep.   
  
He crawled out of bed with a yawn, hesitating over his robe and then decided to get dressed. Better to be fully clothed today for whatever chat was going to happen at some point. Perhaps after they'd gone to Scotland Yard, Sherlock would probably be in a snit beforehand and in John's experience that did not lead to good conversations.   
  
Downstairs, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, his dressing grown open over the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he preferred to lounge about in, both of which probably cost more than most of John's wardrobe combined. Honestly, for a man who didn't care about fashion, he kept up with it particularly well.   
  
"Oh, you're up," John said, unnecessarily. He was pointedly not noticing that Sherlock looked rather nice rumpled up in the morning, his ankles and feet bare, curled up against the chill as Sherlock contemplated the ceiling.   
  
"Your grasp of the obvious is particularly scintillating this morning."  
  
"Good morning to you, too," John muttered, wandering into the kitchen. He needed caffeine before he could deal with anything this morning. And toast. Toast was a requirement, a yeasty barrier of protection against Sherlock's obvious mood. He hadn't expected him to be sulking about having to go down to the Yard so early.   
  
He had a plate made up quickly, butter scraped over his nearly burnt toast and a cup instant coffee. Foul-tasting but the caffeine infusion would be a help. Carrying it out to the sitting room to eat was more wishful thinking than hope; very rarely the smell of toast would entice Sherlock into filching a piece and he did tend to be in a better mood with a little food in him.   
  
It was only as John got closer that he got a good look at Sherlock. The bluish shadows under his eyes were near-livid and the bruises on his face were stark in the morning brightness, one long scrape rusty with dried blood along his cheek.   
  
"Did you even sleep last night?" John asked, appalled.  
  
"Noooo," Sherlock lifted his hands long enough to drawl out and then returned his fingers to their normal posture against his lips.   
  
Well, that set the tone for the morning. With a growing sense of dread, John tossed back his coffee with a grimace and set down his plate, toast untouched. If Sherlock hadn't slept then that meant something was twisting its way 'round his brain and John wasn't sure he was up to dealing with whatever it was just yet. Unless it was a case, that was entirely possible, perhaps something they'd missed from their friendly neighbourhood bomber?   
  
"Did you want some tea?" John offered with desperate brightness, "I was going to make tea. And eggs, but I'm not sure you'd want any if you're on a case. Are you on a case? Did you…get one from the website last night?"  
  
Sherlock didn't move. "John, you spent the entire evening wondering when we were going to talk about the bathroom incident. Pretending amnesia is not going to stop it from happening now."  
  
"I'm not pretending—" John began, exasperated, yes, a bit flustered, certainly, this wasn't supposed to be happening yet, they were supposed to talk after Scotland Yard and Sherlock, of course, had to change all the schedules to fit his preferences… and then he saw the photos.  
  
Oh, dear God. There, above the mantel in a pastiche of the normal crime scene diorama that often decorated it, was a massive collection of photographs, printouts, what have you. All organized in a cluttery mass of naked limbs and body parts that surely could only make sense to Sherlock.   
  
"Sherlock," John said, distantly proud of his calm, even tone. "Was this what you were doing last night?"  
  
"No, the pornography fairy paid us a visit while you slept. Of course I did it last night!"  
  
Naturally. Because people often stayed up late into the night coming up with complex photo collages of naked people. No…John squinted at it, warily. Naked blokes, rather. All splayed out in complex positions, either wrapped up with a partner or staring lustfully at the camera. John wasn't sure what Sherlock was going for with that monstrosity but John's foremost emotion was disturbed.   
  
A terrible thought occurred. "Has Mrs Hudson been up here yet today?" he demanded.  
  
"She brought up the shopping, didn't stay for tea," Sherlock said absently.  
  
"Oh, well, good. Great. That's perfect." John scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly and wished, fleetingly, he'd gone ahead and had a lie-in. It mightn't have stopped the conversation any more than an inexplicable case of amnesia but he could have had at least one thing in his favour today.   
  
"Well?" Sherlock drawled, let the word drag along his tongue like speaking it was all the effort he was willing to put forth.   
  
"Well, what?"  
  
Sherlock's sigh was so rife with exasperation that John had to resist the urge to rip the sound from the air and strangle the man with it. "You've been waiting to discuss the incident."  
  
"Oh. Right. All right, then. Let's…let's do this. Last night at the hospital we had a bit of a snog."  
  
"My research would indicate that it was something slightly more than that."   
  
That gave John a pause. "Research?"  
  
Sherlock turned his head and gave the pictures above the mantel a pointed look. "The question of virginity is apparently quite fluid. The variance of sex acts, the duration, location. Any number of details can adversely affect the data."  
  
"Fluid?" John repeated, weakly, wondering just when he'd lost the thread of this conversation.   
  
"John, if you aren't going to pay attention—"  
  
"I am paying attention!" he burst out, "Only we seem to be having the wrong conversation. I'm quite sure we were about to discuss our near-shag in a dirty, public toilet!"  
  
"It was perfectly clean," Sherlock insisted.  
  
"What bloody difference does it make?" John shouted, his concern over their neighbours evaporating in the face of early morning insanity and whether it was him or Sherlock who was insane, well, John thought you'd have to be crazy to even try figuring it out.   
  
"What difference? Let's say you're sorting through the catalogue of your memories," Sherlock paused, eyebrows drawing together as he considered. "For the purposes of this experiment, we'll pretend that you catalogue your memories. And in the newly formed section regarding sexual activity, you have your first kiss alongside your first orgasm provided by another person. Where would you rather it took place, in a filthy disease-ridden lavatory or a nice clean one?"  
  
Oh, God. John stared back at Sherlock in horror, felt his stomach drop out. Bad enough he'd been the one to do it and never mind that Sherlock had been the one to drag them into the lav to begin with but said like that, John was fairly sure that alongside his newly dissolved partnership with any deities this was going to lead straight to him going to Hell.  
  
One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upward and on him it was as good as a grin. John glared at him. "You do realize you're about the biggest bastard I've ever met," John informed him conversationally.  
  
"Nonsense. My parents were married both before my conception and well after my birth. Aside from that, Mycroft is at least two inches and three stone larger than I am." Sherlock shifted on the sofa, rolling over to lie on his side and actually looked at John for a change. "Honestly, John, I'm not sure why this is so troublesome to you. Coming from someone whose first kiss was standing on the girl's porch and first sex act was in the backseat of car, a hospital lavatory is hardly as gruesome as all that."  
  
"How did you--no, don't tell me. I'd rather not know. Just…explain things for me. Why…what…what are we even discussing right now?"  
  
Sherlock sighed, " _You_  want to discuss yesterday's incident. I, on the other hand, was thinking that I might enjoy you coming close enough for another kiss."  
  
If John had been concerned about it, it was probably not a good mark on the side of heterosexuality that John's mouth went a little damp just thinking about it. He swallowed it away; no, they needed to have this particular chat first. "I'm not sure that's a good idea right now, Sherlock."  
  
"So kissing is only acceptable when you’re the one doing it?" Sherlock asked peevishly. He flopped back over, hiding against the back of the sofa.   
  
"No, of course not, that isn't what I meant—"  
  
"You're the one who kissed ME at the hospital."  
  
"That's…that's true." John supposed it was true if Sherlock was telling him so, he honestly didn't remember past the wet touch of mouths and the way Sherlock had tasted like a sweet, bloody mess. "But I was not the one who dragged you into the dirty bathroom."  
  
" _Clean_  bathroom."  
  
John rubbed his hands over his face. "Sherlock, exactly what is it that you are trying to do here? Let's clear this up. Please. I don't even understand why you're researching all this. I won't be part of some experiment."  
  
"You think I'd use losing my virginity as an experiment?"  
  
"Yes," John said instantly.   
  
Sherlock's half-muffled laugh was in no way comforting. "So you want to discuss what happened last night even though both of us know EXACTLY what happened. You've been increasingly interested me in a sexual fashion, particularly since it was pointed out to you that our relationship is more similar to that shared by couples rather than flatmates or friends. That interest facilitated you kissing me last night while we were both still under the influence of adrenaline and narcotics and as I have felt an increased interest along the lines of yours, I responded in a universally appropriate fashion."  
  
It took him a moment to parse that bit of Sherlockian observation but when he did…there was simply no way to not be flattered by that. John was under no illusions about himself. A desire for excitement aside, he was not much more than an ordinary bloke and Sherlock was…nothing less than extraordinary. And he'd just admitted right here in the light of morning that he found John interesting.   
  
"Only this morning you're obviously having doubts. Perhaps you're concerned about the state of our friendship or the way our status as flatmates will be affected by the modification of our relationship. Or perhaps it's the homosexual aspect that's troubling you. Understandable, a man of your stature would be reluctant to relinquish any amount of masculinity he'd managed to achieve, particularly considering your military background," Sherlock spat, his voice increasingly bitter.  
  
Oh, a jab right in the ego, was it. Sherlock upset became Sherlock prickly rude, lashing out, and John wasn't about to fall for it. John stood and walked over to sit on the edge of the couch and Sherlock froze mid-breath as John settled a hand on the middle of his chest.  
  
"The homosexual aspect doesn't bother me," John said quietly. "I'm just a little concerned, is all. You told me yourself that you’re a virgin. What you haven't mentioned is why—"  
  
"Why I'm a virgin? Because I haven't wanted to have sex with anyone, John." The 'obviously' was heavily implied but John was relieved to hear he was at least calmer.   
  
"Except here you are, now, wanting to have sex with me. You're even researching it," he gestured at the porn-board, resolutely did not look at it. "Why, exactly, are you researching it?  
  
"I wanted there to be no question that you've relieved me of every aspect of my virginity."  
  
Oh, fuck. John blinked hard, swallowed, and firmly crossed his legs. Down, boy.   
"Sherlock, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"  
  
"In thirty years, you're the first person I have ever wanted to touch me and you're asking if I am SURE?" Sherlock demanded  
  
John persisted, though, despite Sherlock's verbal argument and his prick's internal one. "And you're absolutely sure it's me you want to do this with?"  
  
"John, I have been through public school, Uni, several bouts of drug rehab and a handful of flatmates and in all that time, I have never so much as had someone else hands down my pants. I never even had the urge until I met you. I think it's fair to say I'm sure."  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
"Good. Now will you come here!"  
  
"Right now?" John started to stand, toppled back gently on the sofa as Sherlock grabbed his knee and held on. "I'm not doing it right this minute! I…I just made toast!"  
  
"John, if toast is of more interest to you than sexual interaction with me, then I'm having some serious concerns about this working out."  
  
Last night with the adrenaline still humming through him and Sherlock's mouth inches from his own, it had been easy to dive in. Press their mouths together and go along for the ride. Now, sitting here in their flat on Baker Street, it was strange and awkward and Sherlock was eying him resentfully for not jumping him the moment he announced his scheme.  
  
Christ.  
  
"Sherlock," John said, carefully, in the tone he reserved for moments when Sherlock was being particularly difficult. "You are exhausted. If you didn't sleep last night then you're on the tail end of 72 hours of not sleeping. This is not a good time to start with this. You need to get some sleep first."  
  
"I can't." Sullenly.  
  
"You can't," John repeated, slowly.  
  
"No," Sharp snarl. "I can't sleep."  
  
Ah. Not won't, but literally, could not. That made all the difference and John softened, helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"  
  
"Come here?"  
  
He did, let Sherlock pulled him down on top of him. Bony and thin, all elbows and knees and then Sherlock twisted beneath him somehow, eased the sprawl of their limbs together until John had his head pressed to Sherlock's chest, their legs twined together.   
  
It was strange, John couldn't deny that. He was far more accustomed to soft curves against him, breasts and cushy bottoms, the bitter taste of lipstick after kisses. Sherlock could be described as anything but soft. Weedy and slim, every part of him bone and muscle and tendons. Flat where a woman would be rounded, angular where there should be curvy hips and thighs. Strange, to be sure. But not unpleasant.   
  
Warm breath tousled against the top of his head and John tipped his head a bit, felt Sherlock bury his face into his hair and inhale, deeply. A softer touch and John realized Sherlock was pressing a kiss against his scalp. It was unexpected to the extreme and John swallowed dryly, certain parts of him responding eagerly to having a lovely, warm body against him.   
  
He wanted this, John could admit to that. As far as men went, John was as much a virgin as Sherlock but at least he'd  _had_  sex and he wasn't about to take their relationship much further with the chronic insomniac before Sherlock had reset his brain function to something other than damn well exhausted.   
  
Only, Sherlock was bloody well cuddling him and showed no sign of falling asleep anytime soon.   
  
"Sherlock," John said, shifting gingerly until he could look up. "I know that you don't sleep or eat on cases but there does come a point where a lack of both is going to degrade brain function."  
  
Sherlock's eyes were bluer in the morning light, resting on him. They were normally impassive, alive only with the ideas held behind them and just now they were filled with something like heat as they met John's eyes. "I know," he said, simply.   
  
Right. Course he did. John took a deep breath, felt his chest press tighter against Sherlock's with it. "But you can't sleep."  
  
"No."  
  
Right again. John wanted so very much to look away, hide his eyes and he resisted the urge. He couldn't go into this with his eyes closed no matter how much easier it would be. It couldn't always be Sherlock dragging him off to the dir—to the  _clean_  bathroom. John held his gaze steadily, met that soft blue with his own. "And you want to do this, with me. Reduce your semi-virginal state to nonexistence?"  
  
"Yes?" Sherlock agreed, a little warily.  
  
John nodded, slowly, braced his hands against the sofa on either side of Sherlock and pushed himself up until he was upright, straddling Sherlock's slim waist. "I'd tell you to tell me if you want to stop but I think we both know you have no trouble speaking up."  
  
"I've never had difficulty expressing my feelings over any subject….what are you doing?" Sherlock voice caught, a slightly higher note at the end as John pushed up what he thought of as Sherlock's lounge-about t-shirt. Let his hands glide upward with it, smoothing over silky skin until he'd rucked up the fabric to Sherlock's underarms.   
  
"I'm a doctor," John reminded him, couldn't help smiling at the annoyed quirk to Sherlock's mouth. Yes, yes, stating the obvious. He ran his hands down the narrow chest, scratched his nails lightly through the tiny, curling hairs that led downward. "I'm quite familiar with sleep aids." A somewhat unnerving thought occurred to him, one that had to be asked. "I know you haven't done anything with another person, but have you ever masturbated?"  
  
Relief coursed through him as Sherlock sighed impatiently, an answer in and of itself. Not that it stopped Sherlock from verbal confirmation. "Yes, of course, as has probably most virgins in the world. Just because I haven't had the urge to have another person groping me does not mean I don't have a libido...ah!"  
  
John had scraped his thumbnail over one tight, pink nipple more out of curiosity than arousal but the sound Sherlock made, the way he twitched, hips pushing up automatically, made John do it again.   
  
Sensitive, then. Sherlock already had his eyes closed, long lashes shading over the bluish circles beneath them. Not in any way was he close to sleep, not with his mouth parted, white teeth digging into his lower lip and the sharp breath he drew when John pinched his nipple lightly was entirely too enticing at this hour of the morning.  
  
If he'd had trouble sleeping last night, unable to quiet his wandering thoughts, how must it be for Sherlock whose mind never seemed to take a break?  
  
Those lashes lifted, pale eyes peering at him from beneath. "John?"  
  
He realized he'd gone still and slid his hands into motion again. "It's all right," he soothed. "I'm right here."  
  
"I can feel your hands on me and they are too warm to be severed. I'm fully aware you're right there."  
  
"And you complained about my pillow talk?" John muttered.  
  
A little more petting might reduce the chances of any more talk of severed limbs. John drew his hands down Sherlock's sides, felt the outline of his ribs through the thin skin. The man really did need to eat more...  
  
His thought was cut off by Sherlock's violent twitch, his arms tightened to his side to force John to stillness and he belatedly realized he'd been tickling him. Oh, that was too delicious and he grinned up at Sherlock's thin glare.  
  
"Don't," Sherlock warned and John only gave him a sweet smile.  
  
"Oh, wouldn't think of it, love. Lay back, you're supposed to be relaxing."  
  
Sherlock warily let him pull his hands free, tense against any coming attack. He relaxed when John only let his hands slide down the tautness of his belly, the soft fine hair downy against his fingertips until he hit the barrier of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. John drew in a long, shaky breath; he wanted this, he honestly did, but with the immediacy of it staring him in the face, his confidence was wavering.   
  
Sherlock was unmoving beneath him, watching him through his lashes and John met the silent challenge in his eyes, thumbing the buttons at the flies until he could smooth it open. Sherlock wasn't wearing anything beneath it.  
  
His cock was much like the man himself, long and slim, cupped in a soft nest of dark hair, the only place Sherlock seemed to have much hair except for that on his head. A swell of glistening wetness at the tip was shockingly vivid evidence that Sherlock did, in fact, want this. As though the rise of his hips against John's weight wasn't hint enough, Sherlock drawing in a stuttering gasp of air, rocking up against John in silent demand.  
  
Well, then.   
  
He kept his eyes on his own hands, the sharp contrast of his tanned skin against the paleness of Sherlock's hips as he dragged his thumbs down the length and back up again. The sound Sherlock made startled him into looking back up and John watched, entranced, as Sherlock tipped his head back with a moan, his tongue fluttering against his lower lip as though trying to speak. Trying, and failing, nothing escaped him but wordless sound and John slid his thumbs down again. Rubbing the looseness of the foreskin against the head made Sherlock thrash almost violently, nearly tipping John off his lap.   
  
He managed to keep his balance and wrapped his hand awkwardly around the length of it. The angle was different than with his own prick, and it felt different in his hand, slimmer, longer, strange. Sherlock was a virgin but this was new territory for John as well. He'd touched another man's cock before but always through the thin latex of gloves and there was nothing at all seductive about a physical, the chemistry in the brain shut down in favour of the clinical nature of being a doctor.   
  
Strange, yes, awkwardly, certainly, but it wasn't as though John didn't know what to do. He tested his grip, found a pressure that made Sherlock moan loudly, his hands scrabbling over the smooth leather of the cushions as he sought out something to cling to. Sherlock was already close, leaking enough to make everything smooth and easy. John stroked him quickly, watched as Sherlock writhed against the cushions, a sheen of sweat rising on his skin, dampening his hair. Barely touched and he was already a whimpering mess, pleading incoherently, and Christ, if he wasn't lovely. How had he gone this long in life untouched? It didn't seem possible; Sherlock who usually seemed as prickly as a wet cat came undone at only a few strokes, a single hand wrapped around his cock. Practically gagging to be touched and kissed and fucked.   
  
Jesus.   
  
Beneath his spread legs, Sherlock managed to shift a bit and pushed his thigh up against John's crotch unerringly, a warm line of pressure that dragged his thoughts back to his memory of the hospital, his own hard cock aching for him to ride against that offered body. Still… "Hold on," John began, had to close his eyes as Sherlock slid his leg against him with perfect force. "This is supposed to be about you."  
  
A broken laugh made him look up, met darkened, languid eyes. Sherlock's mouth was red, a flush of colour staining his cheeks, spilling down to his chest, "If I'd wanted it to be about me, I would have tossed off in the shower, John."  
  
John drew in a shaky breath and nodded, and any protest Sherlock might have had over John letting him go was instantly muted as John stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Not that he was trying to out-nude Sherlock just now, only he was starting to run low on clothing that wasn't blood splattered or scorched. Didn't much want to add any more bodily fluids to the few shirts he had left. With quick, jerky movements he opened his own trousers, tugging them down just below his hips.  
  
"Oh," Sherlock breathed and John paused, just starting to lean over Sherlock. It left him on his hands and knees above him, his own hardened cock a heavy weight between his legs and he nearly flinched as startlingly cool hands wrapped around him possessively. Christ, it was like Sherlock had an abnormal amount of fingers, fluttering over him, touching every inch of skin, even cupping his balls firmly enough that he drew in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth.   
  
"Easy," he gritted out and instantly, Sherlock gentled, both hands sliding up his cock in an entirely gorgeous way, one after the other in a tight, quick jerk.   
  
"You like that," Sherlock stated, and John managed to nod curtly, sure that blurting out, 'Of course, I fucking like it, idiot' would ruin the mood. The way one side of Sherlock's quirked up in a half-smile made him think Sherlock heard his mental insult anyway and he swore aloud when Sherlock let him go, his freshly warmed, damp hands gliding up John's chest to his shoulders.   
  
"Kiss me," Sherlock demanded and John collapsed down on him in relief, the warmth of his belly not quite a replacement for his hands but it gave John something to push against, riding the hard, flat plane of it as he pressed their mouths together for the first time this morning. Odd, was it, to be groping each other's cocks without so much of a kiss? John didn't know, not like they ever did anything the normal way. It was good to be kissing him now, slicking their tongues together messily. Sherlock kissed like…well, like someone who hadn't done it much, or ever really, and John only rubbed his mouth wetly against his and delighted in his eager inexperience.  
  
"Come on," Sherlock mumbled into his mouth, wriggling and shifting beneath him and John only had the haziest idea of what he was up to until he felt the hard, eager length of Sherlock's cock against his own.   
  
Oh, right.   
  
He might have been embarrassed that it was the virgin who got things back on track if he didn't know that Sherlock had been researching sex all night long. Instead, he groaned into Sherlock's mouth, reached down and wrapped his hand around both of them the best he could. Oh, that felt fucking amazing, Sherlock's cock rubbing against his own and John wished desperately that he could use both hands, that he didn't have to brace himself on one arm to keep their mouths together.   
  
Again, Sherlock seemed to understand him with a silent sort of telepathy and John wondered dimly if he'd gotten his wish for it of the night before a bit late. Then any fanciful thoughts were torn away by the feel of Sherlock's hand over his own, gripping tightly, matching John stroke for stroke as they slid slickly between their shared palms.   
  
"Ohh...oh..that feels…John," Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, pouring each word into him in a frantic overflow. His hips were snapping up sharply, thrusting his cock into the tight clasp of their hands and John was only along for the ride, distantly aware of thick, desperate sounds rising from his own throat. This was…it was…yes, just like that, like Sherlock's feverish, broken words were tracing their way up to John's brain and settling in.   
  
He could feel the crest of it rising in Sherlock, the tremble in his thighs, his tongue going lax against John's, and the shattered, staggered hitch of his hips as he pushed up into their hands once, again, and then groaned out a last, broken little sound; John's name.   
  
The hot, wet spill over their combined hands tore a harsh cry from John, the feel of it, Christ, Sherlock was coming against him, coming all over him, slickening their grip. John shook away Sherlock's loosened hand, palmed himself hard and stroked with tight, vicious pulls, and that was all he could take, all he could stand, orgasm sparking bright behind his eyes as he followed Sherlock over the edge, coming in a hard, fluid rush over Sherlock's softening cock and belly.   
  
Whatever strength John managed to retain throughout all this abandoned him promptly, his supporting arm folding under him until he was sprawled out on Sherlock, the wet evidence of their sex sticky between their stomachs and soon, John would probably care about that. Just now, John buried his face into Sherlock's startlingly prickly throat, confirmation that Sherlock hadn't even gotten up long enough to shave this morning.   
  
It was just another facet of strange to his gem of a morning. Not that he was complaining, bloody hell, no. John couldn't remember a time when a handjob had left him so wrecked and if he felt like this, Sherlock must be feeling…well. John had no idea, no point of reference to work with for the aftermath with his antisocial, semi-virginal flatmate.   
  
Concern helped John manage to lift his head, ready to soothe any after-sex jitters might be arising. Far from that, to John's bemused eyes Sherlock was already sound asleep, mouth slightly opened as he breathed deeply, silently, his lashes only barely quivering against his cheeks.   
  
Jitters would have to wait then. Past experience had taught John that when Sherlock finally slept, he did it only just above the level of coma and when he finally managed to heave himself to his feet, he wasn't surprised that Sherlock didn't so much as twitch, sprawled out as John had left him, sticky and more than a little naked. Rather than tug his clothes back down over the mess, John chose to get a wet cloth from the bathroom first, wiping him down gently. Handling his softened prick was only slightly more familiar, reminiscent of giving a sponge bath to a patient on the occasions he'd been without a nurse. Having it twitch in his hand, already starting to harden was certainly a change and John hastily tucked Sherlock back into his pyjamas before this became less about cleaning and more about molesting the unconscious.   
  
The flat was chilly this early in the morning and John pulled his shirt back over his head almost absently, wandering back into Sherlock's bedroom for a blanket. Sherlock would sleep through the chill without waking but to John's eyes he was already restless from it, turning towards to back of the sofa and drawing his legs up. Cold was the one element that tested the very limits Sherlock's tolerance.   
  
The way Sherlock burrowed into the blanket as John tucked it around him was further proof and John made sure that his bare feet were well-covered, every bit of him from his toes to his eyebrows swathed in blanket. Just to keep him from waking up early, John told himself. Honestly, it was better for everyone that Sherlock get a nice, long rest.   
  
He was already back in the kitchen, munching on his cold toast despite the congealed butter coating it, when he noticed the time.   
  
Half-past ten. Shit. Lestrade was going to kill him.   
  
But the only other option was waking Sherlock and John would cheerfully hand over his spleen and perhaps a kidney to Lestrade before trying to wake him up early. Sherlock was likely to hand him his own kidney if he did; not a morning person did not even begin to describe it.  
  
John sighed aloud. No help for it, he was going to have to call. Sherlock might prefer to text but John's mum had raised him with better manners than Sherlock had managed to acquire.   
  
It was doubtful that Sherlock would even stir but John went up to his bedroom to make the call anyway, dialing Lestrade's private number rather than trying to puzzle his way through the Yard's automated phone service.   
  
"Greg?" John said cautiously as Lestrade picked up with nothing more than a curt,  _Where are you two?!_  "Ah, right, yes, I know we're supposed to be down there. Right. Yes. I know, but he's in a bad way this morning, up all night. Well, to be fair we did almost get blown up…" John winced and held the phone away from his ear as the volume increased exponentially, interspersed with much more creative swearing than Lestrade had shown the night before. He must be alone in his office. "I know, I know, I'll have him down there, soon as he wakes up."  
  
More swearing and the threats were getting increasingly inventive. Hastily, John held the phone up to his mouth alone and said, loudly, "Right, then, we'll be seeing you soon, Inspector!" and jammed a finger on the end call button. So much for manners, then.   
  
What to do until Sherlock woke, then. His laundry was overflowing in the hamper; a pointed, silent indication that he'd rather been neglecting it lately and John took the hint, heaved up the basket and carried it as quietly as he could down the stairs.   
  
He was most of the way to the door leading out from the kitchen when John heard his name spoken in sleepy, peevish tones, "John?"  
  
Shit.   
  
"Right here," John set down the basket and leaned into the living room to find Sherlock propped up on his elbows, blinking tiredly at him.  
  
"You left," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse with much-needed sleep and so guilelessly lost that John felt a sharp ache of guilt in the middle of his chest. He had left, hadn’t he, after Sherlock first real sexual experience, he'd gone off and left him alone. Of course, he'd expected Sherlock to sleep longer than twenty minutes but that wasn't much of an excuse.   
  
"I'm sorry," John said honestly and Sherlock blinked up at him owlishly, seemed to be trying to process it. John wondered if he was even truly awake; outside of being drugged he'd never seen Sherlock so out of sorts.  
  
"Come back?" he asked, sleepily hopeful and John couldn’t have resisted with a gun to his head. He quickly set the basket aside and moving to sit next to him. And found himself promptly tugged into Sherlock's arms, drawn back down against him as Sherlock nestled equal parts into the blanket and him. From the feel of it, he drifted off again the moment his head touched down and John settled against him with some bemusement, absurdly aware that Sherlock was using him as some sort of living teddy bear. He settled against Sherlock with a mental shrug, content to rest against him as unexpectedly strong arms held him tight.   
  
It seemed he was having a lie-in this morning, after all.   
  


* * *


	3. Day Three

Day Three

 

It had been some time since John had been afflicted with blinking cursor syndrome. Unknown as it was to most medical journals, it was an illness that John had had the chance to experience first-hand. For one to spend minutes, hours, even days at a time sitting down at the computer and resulting in nothing more than staring at the cursor as it flashed mockingly. No words coming forth, no soliloquies, monologues or even a paragraph. In the days of trying to start his blog John would stare at that small, blinking line until desperation prompted him to type something, anything, just to make it stop. He'd delete it just as quickly and close his laptop, beaten.

He'd told his therapist the truth back then; nothing ever happened to him. 

That had ceased to be true some time ago and it wasn't that he had nothing to say that kept John staring at the cursor today. This time he had entirely too much to say, words trembling at the edge of his fingertips, waiting to spill out into his blog and John was stifling them back. Not that he didn't want to write about the bomber case, course he did, but every time he started to write he felt as though everything else that had happened after was glowing out from every word. 

Sherlock was rather one of the more brilliant liars John had ever met, coaxing information from witness, clients, before they'd even realized just what they were offering up. John on the other hand, put simply, was not. He had a feeling that anything he put in his blog today, whether or not it had anything to do with their mad bomber, was going to shine out with brilliant, neon subtext: _Sherlock and I had a shag._

Not that he minded people knowing he and Sherlock were…well, whatever it was they were doing, John didn't mind if people knew about it. Most people thought they already knew about it, truth be told, and how aggravating was it that people who weren't directly involved in his sex life were observing it with the sort of fascinating usually reserved for crap telly. 

There was the rub right there and not a good kind of rub that ended with lovely, messy orgasms and the like, it was the kind that forced him to endure sideways looks from Detective Inspectors when he hid behind Sherlock in hospital entryways, the kind that made him have awkward conversations with Mrs Hudson in their kitchen.

He put that memory firmly out of his mind and not for the first time, wished he had to ability to delete things from his own mental hard drive. Handy trick, that would be. 

 

Day 2, Redux

When John finally woke up again it was well past two in the afternoon and the gritty ache of too much sleep was sharp in his head. It was disorienting, waking up where he wasn't supposed to be, tangled up with someone he wasn't sure he was supposed to be with. The sofa was cramped to say the least and Sherlock was not the most comfortable sleeping surface available, sort of bony and scrawny, not at all like the lovely mattress John had upstairs. 

Add in the fact that, for a skinny bloke, Sherlock put off heat like a bloody furnace when he was sleeping and they were both fully dressed and wrapped up in a blanket. John had been in more comfortable deserts, he reckoned. Sweat was drenching off him, Sherlock's knee was digging into his hip and it felt like he had a nice handful of John's arse as well, gripping it like he was dreaming of mountain-climbing…John frowned, squirmed a bit. No, Sherlock was dreaming of sex, felt like, and John wasn't entirely sure how he felt being a second-hand participant in all that. He usually preferred these things to happen when both parties were awake.

Besides, who knew what kind of sex dreams Sherlock had and what was involved? John thought it might be safer to simply not ask. Better for his sanity, anyway. 

It took effort to lift his head enough to see anything and when he did, he found Sherlock still in his normal sleep state, which was to say completely unconscious. There were still violet half-moons beneath his eyes and from this distance John had a clear view of the bruises rising up on his pale skin. Christ, they had both taken a bit of a beating, hadn't they? The scrape on his cheek was a vivid rusty line, bisecting the right side of his face.  
Also, he was drooling, just a thin line of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth to dampen the pillow beneath his neck. 

That was such a normal thing that it made John smile a little, pressing the softest of kisses to the saliva-free corner of Sherlock's mouth. To his surprise, it provoked a reaction, long arms winding around him, hauling him in and wrapping him in a strong web of limbs and woollen blanket. From which he could not escape. 

Well, this was inconvenient. 

Extracting himself took an embarrassingly long time, every aspect of his escape having to take into account that: 

A. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock,  
B. He also didn't want to wake Sherlock, and  
C. He couldn't bloody breathe with Sherlock trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him with those wiry arms of his.

By the time he worked his way loose, John was sweating through his clothes and the only thing to be grateful for was the fact that there had been no witnesses to his botched Houdini act.

It was only then that he realized he could hear movement in the kitchen. Oh, Christ, John knew he'd ruined his relationship with the deities what with his whole, virginity-taking in clean bathrooms thing he had going, but couldn't he catch a break just once?

From the fact that Mrs Hudson was currently in their kitchen cleaning out their refrigerator, John was guessing not. He gave the little porn collage that was currently occupying the space above their mantel a resigned sort of look and decided he was more embarrassed by the fact that their middle-aged landlady had to rummage through their fridge once a week to toss out any body parts that were starting to pong a bit too much. Maybe he could scrape up just enough luck for her to have not worn her reading glasses when she'd dropped by the shopping earlier. 

"Morning," John offered quietly, slipping into the kitchen and away from Sherlock before he could make with his grabby hands again. 

"Missed that by about three hours, dear," Mrs Hudson said absently, wrinkling her nose at a Ziploc bag she'd lifted from the crisper bin.

"Toss it," John said promptly. He had no idea what it was and Sherlock might be annoyed with him later but the second anything started smelling was when it went in the rubbish bins as far as John was concerned. 

"Yes, I think so," Mrs Hudson added it to her ghoulish collection. "If you want tea, the water is still hot."

"Ta," John said gratefully, pouring out a cup. He busied himself with that, ignoring the elephant that was sitting in the room with them, large and befuddled, and having everything to do with her coming in to find him and Sherlock asleep on the couch together, having a cuddle. 

Until Mrs Hudson gave him a serious look from over the refrigerator door, "John, are you—"

"I know what you're going to say," John burst out, "You're going to ask if I'm sure about what I'm doing and if this is a good idea, and let me tell you, I've no idea, I really don't. We're flatmates and we're friends and now we're…well, I don't know what we are so I can't be sure about anything, and maybe you're right, maybe this will ruin everything and I'll regret it, and he's making collages out of internet porn and I just have no bloody idea!"

By the time he ended on a hoarse whisper, John had to take a furious sip of his tea, his eyes glued to the murky liquid, very carefully not looking at their landlady cum housekeeper. 

A beat of silence, another, and then Mrs Hudson said apologetically, "I was actually going to ask if you were hungry, I brought some biscuits up as well."

"Oh." John pursed his lips. "Yes. Thank you." 

"If you don't mind my saying, though, you don't seem very sure about things," Mrs Hudson said it very matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the plastic container of ears that she was setting back on the glass shelf. 

"If you're going to warn me about breaking his heart, you needn't bother," John said it more to his tea than to Mrs Hudson. "I saw how he was after…her. I'll be careful."

"It's not Sherlock's heart I worry about." Mrs Hudson was always so gently admonishing, dipping her sponge into her bucket of soapy water and scrubbing the shelf clean. It made John flush a bit and he chewed on his biscuit to keep from saying anything else foolish. "I've known him for some time now, since that dreadful business with Henry," her lips pinched slightly as they always did when she mentioned her former husband. She shook her head, "All that aside, I've known him for years. You've been here for just over a year now, isn't it?"

"Something like that," John agreed, warily. Come to think of it, it had been a year, two months, and one week, and John was mildly impressed that he knew that. He imagined Sherlock knew it to the hour, the minute, possibly the second if he was giving a chance to turn on his mental calculator.

She nodded. "And I already can't imagine him without you." She sighed a bit. "Oh, listen to me prattle on. I don't want either of you hurt, John. We both know what he's like, don't we?"

I know slightly better, John did not say. He rather thought Mrs Hudson had gotten enough of an eyeful earlier and probably didn't need any information on just what had happened before the snuggling. 

He did care about her, Mrs Hudson who was not their housekeeper but was certainly more than their landlady. Sherlock might’ve been unconsciously looking for a mummy figure and if so, Mrs Hudson was a lovely choice. Murderous husbands aside, she adored him, coddled him and indulged him, not afraid to be stern when he needed it. She'd taken him in and Sherlock soaked in all her attention like a greedy sponge. 

And without him even realizing it, John had gotten swept along in it. Spent days watching crap telly with her, changing the light bulbs in his high closets for her, shovelling off the stoop in the wintertime and setting out the rubbish bins to be picked up once a week. Adopted and loved, the older, more responsible son in comparison to her baby, the youngest, spoilt one. Or perhaps he was more like the well-loved son-in-law. 

Son-in-law. John swallowed down a bite of biscuit painfully, his mouth suddenly dry. Was he about to have his heterosexual crisis now? John waited a moment, considering. 

No, didn't seem like. Good, he expected this to be a lot more enjoyable without all that rubbish.

"I'll be careful," John promised and he gave her a one-armed squeeze, felt her warm affection when she kissed his temple. By the time Sherlock awoke, shuffling into the kitchen and seating himself a the table with a groan that would have done a walking corpse proud, the two of them had put the kitchen to rights and Mrs Hudson had something lovely smelling bubbling in a pot on the stove. If she noticed the way Sherlock leaned against John in an odd sort of armless hug, rubbing his face into John's hair before he'd sagged onto his stool, she didn't say, only patted his shoulder and set his steaming tea with sugar and milk in front of him without a word.

Sherlock drank his tea and ate whatever Mrs Hudson placed in front of them without ever coming into a state that John would call awake. He watched, bemused, as Sherlock shambled back to his feet and staggered into his own bedroom, heard the sound of him flopping down on the bed.

Well, then. Further sex was called on account of impermeable exhaustion. John cleaned his own plate, mopping the last traces of gravy away with a slice of bread and shooed Mrs Hudson off before she could do the dishes. He could at least do that much, particularly since it didn't seem like he was going to be doing much else. Sherlock was intent on sleeping the day away and John's only chore was to avoid Lestrade's increasingly vulgar text messages about them coming down to the Yard to discuss the mad bomber.

The last one had made John wince. Blimey, he'd been in the military and he didn't recall anyone using that particular turn of phrase. He doubted Lestrade would appreciate him texting back that as a doctor, John knew for a fact that what he was suggesting was not, actually, physically possible.

Much later that night, fresh and clean from the shower and in his pyjamas, John wavered at the closed door to Sherlock's room uncertainly. Thus far the only discussion they'd gotten in had to do with the varying levels of virginity that Sherlock had left and even though they'd both gotten to tick another box off on the chart this morning, they hadn't said anything about, well, anything else. 

From what John had gathered, Sherlock had a fair interest in adding an element of sex to their relationship and John was most certainly on board with that. Christ, just the memory of their wank this morning sent a hot throb through him. It was the question of what else Sherlock might or might not want that had him shuffling his bare feet on the cold floor for a ridiculous amount of time, indecisively, before he squared his shoulders and decided on the fuck-it route. If Sherlock didn't want him to sleep here at night, he'd certainly have no qualms about tossing John out on his ear. 

He hadn't actually been in Sherlock's room many times and it felt odd slipping in, finding Sherlock's slim form curled beneath the blankets. John lifted one corner of the duvet, half-wondering if Sherlock could be coaxed to nudge over a bit. A hand curling around his wrist made John bite back a surprised yelp and he followed its insistent tug down, burrowing in with Sherlock already coiling around him like a persistent, viney weed, arms and legs both finding parts of John to twine through until he was wrapped up in Sherlock like a present made of body parts. Sherlock would probably appreciate the simile. 

John supposed that this answered any number of questions. 

When he woke a bit in the pre-dawn hours, John wasn’t surprised to find he was alone, not considering how much Sherlock had slept the day before. The sheets beside him were already cool. John curled up into that spot anyway, buried his face into a pillow that smelled of Sherlock and went back to sleep. 

Day Three, continued

 

Lacking the ability to remove memories left John sitting here staring at his blinking cursor, listening to Sherlock moving about in the kitchen doing whatever experiment was on his mental list for the day. He hadn't asked; once the experiments started involving blowtorches and asbestos gloves, John was well quit of it. 

When John had finally gotten up just before dawn, Sherlock had barely offered him a good morning, already peering intently through his microscope at some such thing. They'd had breakfast, or their version of it, John having toast and Sherlock ignoring all food in favour of his worktable, and all in all, it had been a normal, pre-virginity-taking morning for them; Sherlock was caught up on his sleep and back to his usual, unusual, self. 

John might have thought he'd imagined it all if it weren't for their new sitting room art project. Sometime earlier John had gamely given a go at studying it; if Sherlock had spent the entire night putting it together it obviously had some meaning behind it. John couldn't say he found any of the pictures particularly titillating, bunches of naked blokes in a variety of positions. There were pieces of string attached to a few of them with pushpins, indicating some link between them, something John was familiar with Sherlock doing with his cases but whatever Sherlock had found in common between them was something only he could deduce. 

What connection was there between that dark-eyed bloke sprawled out in his pants and the one of two men sucking each other off? There were a few John was rather impressed with and perhaps Lestrade's texts hadn't been quite as off about human anatomy as John had thought. Medical school hadn't had a Kama sutra class, after all. 

None of them stirred more than the mildest interest in him. Perhaps that should be concerning him more than his lack of a heterosexual crisis. He should be more worried that he wasn't having a homosexual one. All it had taken was a glance into the kitchen to rid him of that particular uneasiness. 

Sherlock had been sitting at the table, his hands resting on either side of the microscope and all John could think of was those long, slim fingers, the way they'd felt wrapped around his cock. The coolness of his skin that had warmed so quickly, the possessive way Sherlock had touched him, stroked him. 

John had had to take a deep breath, dragging his eyes away, and that had been when he'd snatched up his laptop, intent on typing up their latest case. Only it wasn't working out very well, since John was trying to write about bombers which should have been easy since his ribs were still aching from the results of it. Except John's thoughts were all still caught up in remembering the soft, sweet noises Sherlock had made when he'd touched him, the way he'd squirmed beneath John, all pale skin and wide eyes, first time touched and he'd been simply gorgeous. 

No, John told himself firmly, this wouldn't do; he'd be having enough trouble yanking Sherlock away from his experiment long enough for a trip to Scotland Yard. Trying to coax him away for the slightly more selfish purposes of relieving him of another shred of his virginity was simply not on, not as far as John was concerned, and he was giving the thought of going out for a long walk serious thought when his laptop was abruptly yanked away, the lid closed sharply as Sherlock set it ungently on the floor. 

"Hey!" John said automatically and any protest he had wuffed out of him when he caught a lapful of surprisingly heavy Sherlock, both his legs snugging in on either side of John's as he straddled him. 

"I can't concentrate on the experiment while you're out here thinking about sex," Sherlock informed him and it was the only warning John had before a mouth was covering his own. For all that Sherlock was barely kissed, his mouth still as unspoiled as a fresh peach, he certainly seemed to learn quickly enough. His tongue was markedly more clever than the day before as it slid past John's lips and delved into the warm darkness of his mouth, tracing his teeth.

John didn't even think about not kissing him back. He already had two handfuls of Sherlock's hair and was sucking gently on the plush softness of his lower lip when actual thought resumed and John pulled back a bit.

Christ, one kiss and Sherlock looked utterly debauched. His mouth was reddened, a lovely flush of colour brought to his normally pale lips and his hair was tousled into wild tufts.

John gave himself a mental shake and forced a little focus to this thoughts, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be distracting. You don't have to try to entertain me."

"Entertain you?" Sherlock scoffed, "I think you should know by now that I am hardly that altruistic." He grabbed one of John's hands and cupped it over his crotch, moulding it over the firm length of his cock. Just the way his eyes fluttered closed, his mouth parting on a breathy moan made John swallow back a bit of choice language. Fuck, Sherlock was simply the sluttiest virgin in existence, had to be. 

He confirmed it with his next words, "I think we should try fellatio."

Oh. John swallowed hard. Imagining it, Sherlock's mouth against him, those soft lips spread wide and that pink tongue that felt glorious against his own sliding over his prick. He tried to speak, had to stop and clear his throat before he could force words from it, "You're sure you want to try that now?"

"Very," Sherlock assured him and to John's surprise, he scrambled back out of his lap and sprawled into his own chair, legs spread wide. He gave John an impatient look when he only stared. "Well? You can't very well do it from over there."

"Can't do what?" John said dumbly, his voice cracking at the end as it occurred to him just exactly what Sherlock might mean. 

Only to have it confirmed with a truly withering look from Sherlock, "Fellate me, of course. This was what we were discussing, you haven't forgotten in the thirty seconds between, have you?"

"Fellate…" John stopped and not for the first time wondered how it was he always lost the thread of the argument before it had even started. "Why exactly am I the one who has to do it?"

"I'm the virgin," Sherlock said, and everything from his raised eyebrows to his tapping fingers indicated that he thought this should be completely obvious, thank you, do try to stop being an idiot, John.

John took a moment to draw from his well of infinite patience he'd developed since becoming Sherlock's flatmate before he attempted to answer that challenge. "Sherlock, while I'm gratified with the confidence you have in my experience, I haven't done fellatio…do we have to call it that? Can we just call it, I don't know, something else?"

"If you have a preferred euphemism, I suggest you pick it now as something we can carry on with. Blow job, sucking dick, gobbling the crank, giving head—"

"Blow job is fine!" John interrupted loudly, before Sherlock could wind through the no doubt endless list he'd discovered on his porn romp through the internet. "You might be the virgin in the equation but I haven't done it from this side either, you know. I'm no mathematical genius but unless something has happened since yesterday then zero plus zero still equals zero."

"And you don't want to?" Sherlock raised both eyebrows at him and that gave John a bit of a pause. Did he want to? 

Yesterday Sherlock had asked John to help him rid himself of his semi-virginal existence and John had agreed. He supposed he hadn't thought the logistics of all that through yet. A mutual wank and a bit of rubbing off was all right for a while but eventually one of them was going to have to man up, as it were, and take a real step into the homosexual ring. 

John licked his lips, imagined he could still taste Sherlock's mouth on them and decided so long as he wasn't have any sort of sexual crisis, it may as well be him. From the way Sherlock smirked at him, his knees falling apart as he slouched down a bit in his seat, he had already deduced exactly where John's thoughts had fallen. 

"Keep looking smug like that and I'll prove you wrong," John warned, snagging the cushion out from behind him and dropping it on the floor. He might never have sucked another man off before but it didn't mean he had no idea about how it went. The thought of the hard floor on his already colourfully bruised knees wasn't much of a turn on. 

It was no idle threat and Sherlock seemed to realize it, scooting back up and catching John's face in his hands, pressing their mouths together again in a startlingly tender kiss. John tipped his head up into it helplessly, let Sherlock slide their tongues together deftly, ah, fuck, he really did learn quickly. John already had an arm wound around Sherlock's neck before he considered it, holding him in while John licked roughly into his mouth, a soft moan vibrating between them.

"John," Sherlock pulled back enough to whisper and John was already panting, staring up into pale, wide eyes. John was leaning in between his legs, Sherlock's knees beneath his elbows and if he leaned in further, John knew exactly what he'd feel straining through the front placket of Sherlock's trousers. 

He swallowed, hard, licked his lips and this time he didn't have to imagine Sherlock's taste. Licked them again when Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of his tongue. "You should…" John cleared his throat, "You should lean back."

Instantly, Sherlock did and it pushed his hips forward, those slim, boyish hips covered in expensive linen trousers. They did nothing to hide the bulge at the front and John didn't need to shore up any bravery to cup his hand over it, feel Sherlock shudder beneath him. 

John slid his thumb down that hard line, back up again, and Christ, the sounds Sherlock could make. He groaned as though John was murdering him, low, throaty moans and it was fascinating to watch the shift up his hips as he pushed up into John's fairly innocent touches, his hands clenching and loosening on the arms of the chair as he squirmed.

Oh, that was just lovely, wasn't it? John did it again, again, both thumbs sliding up and down the clothbound length of Sherlock's prick until he was a whimpering, gasping mess, his normally pale cheeks flushed with brilliant colour, a low sheen of sweat rising on his forehead. Again, John was amazed and bewildered to be the first one touching him; how was it even possible that Sherlock hadn't found someone to try this with, just once, in his entire life? No one who was this perfectly easy, this gorgeously eager should still be a virgin and John might have felt a thin thread of pity for him if it weren't for the way his ego all but swelled over with it. First time touched and the only one this stunning, frustrating, enigmatic man wanted to try it with was John, John who was as ordinary as his name. John was the one unbuckling his belt and pulling the smooth leather through the loops, tossing it aside, unfastening his trousers and sliding down the zip. 

No pants, Jesus, nothing but bare, damp skin against his hands and John tugged slightly on his trousers, startling back as Sherlock jerked his hips up to help. 

"Careful," John groused, "You're going to poke me in the bloody eye."

"I'm sorry...I can't..." Sherlock shuddered under him, a wild tremor running through his body. Christ, John hadn't even done anything yet. "I keep thinking about your mouth, the internal temperature of it, the consistency of your saliva, John…please, John, I can't…"

Of course he couldn't stop thinking about it. If just the thought of getting a blowjob was doing this to him, John couldn't imagine what he'd be like during.

John had gotten a good look at Sherlock's cock the day before, long and slim, perfectly suited to its owner but this was a bit more of a bird's eye view, as it were, and he eyed it warily. If he tried to take all that his first time on the pitch, he was probably going to choke to death or worse, and Sherlock might have taken the remedial course in sexual education the night before but John had nothing to go on except his own memories. Memories that were failing him quite spectacularly at the moment with Sherlock all but writhing and begging in front of him, trousers down around his thighs and his hands clutching at the chair arms.

It'd been some time since John had even been with a woman much less gotten creative with anyone and he couldn't for the life of him recall just what they'd done to keep from being strangled in the course of things. 

Best just try then and see how things got on. John took a deep breath and wrapped a hand around the length of it, gently pulled the foreskin down a little to get a better look at things. The tip was shiny and wet, a testament to Sherlock's eagerness as much as his soft swearing and squirming. It made John's mouth water a bit, thinking about what he was about to do and John didn't give himself time to reconsider, only leaned in and touched his tongue to the tip, tasting slick, bitter salt. 

That was familiar at least; a memory of his own taste on a woman's mouth after and John didn't shy from it, sliding his tongue over the soft, soft skin, tasting more wetness seeping out.

Distantly, he could feel Sherlock trembling beneath him, tremors shivering through his thighs beneath John's arms. He was really doing this, John realized, really giving Sherlock his very first taste of an actual sexual act. A first taste for himself as well, sliding his tongue through another slick rush of salt and John pulled back a bit, let his tongue slide down hot, stretched skin. 

He was only just sliding downward when Sherlock jerked beneath him, coming in wet stripes over his belly, dampening his shirt and narrowly missing catching John full in the face.

Well. At least he'd enjoyed it.

He waited until Sherlock's breathing eased into something a closer to normal before he asked, conversationally, "Was it all right, then?"

Instantly, a flood of brilliant colour rose up his chest, flaming into his cheeks and John was utterly chuffed to see Sherlock was ten shades of embarrassed. Now there was a sight to treasure, tuck that mental picture right in next to the one of Sherlock gasping and coming all over himself. 

"I am so sorry," Sherlock covered his face with a hand, muffled his words into it and John leaned up to tug it away, met the tightness in his face, didn't let him lower his eyes.

"Don't apologize. Please. Don't," John leaned up to kiss him, ignoring the whinging protest of his knees as he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, "You were gorgeous."

"I'm a mess is what I am." There was a hint of sullenness to those words, mingled with lingering embarrassment and John bit his lower lip in a gentle reprimand, none of that, thank you much.

"No," John said firmly. "No, you were, are, gorgeous. You are."

Sherlock sighed resignedly into his mouth, a surrender if John had ever heard one. "I suppose I could do it for you now."

"No, no, it's all right," John said without thinking and that got him an unexpected reaction.

"No?" Sherlock echoed and he didn't sound confused, he sounded _offended_. " _No?_ "

"Now, look, I didn’t mean—" John tried and his heart sank a bit as Sherlock glowered at him. Damn it all to hell, it was like trying to juggle a gun, a stick of dynamite, and lit candle with him, wasn't it, and right now John was trying that entire balancing act with a blindfold on.

"No," Sherlock spat back at him, scowling with barely restrained anger, "You’ve been imagining sex all morning and now that I'm offering it to you, you're turning me down. Normally I'd put this down to everyday stupidity but this is beyond even that. Care to explain?"

"I didn't say I didn't want sex from you," John corrected him sharply and that got his attention, didn't it, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. John struggled up from his knees, shifting to slide into Sherlock's lap for a change. His shirt was streaked with wetness and John took a moment to unfasten his jeans before he swept a hand through it, slicking it.

"Help a fellow out, will you?" John asked, huskily, already groaning at the feel of his own hand as he slid it, wet with come, into the front of his jeans to curl around his prick. Sherlock, who had been blinking at him with wide, confused eyes, jolted into action as John's words. He slid one hand down to cover John's, their twined fingers sliding jointly around his cock and John closed his eyes, rocking his hips into the slick tunnel formed by their hands. 

"Oh, that's good," John groaned. "That's it, right there, you were gorgeous when you came, did you know that?"

"You said," Sherlock whispered and John forced his eyes open, met shocky eyes with his own. So wide, hardly more than a thin line of grey around the endless black of his pupils and Sherlock's fingers tightened, sliding between John's, all the better to touch him.

"Gorgeous," John husked out, his breath catching as Sherlock chose to take a little initiative, his other hand pushing into the back of John's jeans to cup his bare arse. It was enough to tip him over the edge and he came in a shuddery burst, pressing his face into warm space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He gulped in air, the nubby linen of Sherlock's shirt chafing slightly against his forehead and it was all wonderful. 

"John?" Sherlock turned his head enough to speak it almost into John's ear. His voice was quiet and thoughtful, not a sound John was accustomed to hearing, "Why didn't you want me to give you a blowjob?"

He almost winced at hearing that word rolling off Sherlock's posh tongue until he recalled that he was the one who'd chosen that particular euphemism.

"Because you're supposed to go first," John replied, firmly. "You can try it out on me after I give you a proper one."

Sherlock was quiet, digesting that, before he ventured, "You're assuming I'd be inferior because you didn't manage it with me and so my point of comparison would be faulty?"

"No, I'm sure you'd be brilliant," John said honestly. He let the dig that he hadn't managed with Sherlock go; pointing out that Sherlock had been the one a tad quick out of the gate was a sure-fire way to guarantee he wouldn't get another chance very soon. "I'd like it to be brilliant for both of us. I don't want to be basking in post-orgasmic bliss while you're upset."

"That doesn't make sense," Sherlock complained.

"Trust me. It does."

Something in the kitchen made a sound, a quiet ding, and Sherlock's eyes went to it instantly. The normalcy of it made John smile, a little. To be honest he felt a bit unsteady just now, in a way that had nothing to do with the pleasant aftermath still twinging through him.

"Look, you have an experiment to do. Why don't I get out of here for a bit, I've got some laundry I need to get done. Be less distracting for you if I'm out of your hair entirely."

To his surprise, Sherlock hesitated, his hands sliding free of John's trousers to his back, one of which was still very damp from the feel of it. John resigned himself to tossing another shirt in the wash. At this rate, he'd be down to his rain coat and swim shorts and wouldn't that be a sight at the laundry.

"All right," Sherlock said finally and something in his voice made John lean back, studying his face. Sherlock seemed keen on avoiding that from the way he pushed John gently from his lap, his hands already going to the buttons on his decidedly messy shirt. John watched him go with a frown but he let it go, for now. Post-virginity jitters were bound to come up and pressing Sherlock when he didn't want to talk was a fool's bet.

John took a moment to change his own clothes, gathering them into a wad to add to his collection in the basket downstairs. He was just grabbing it up when he happened to glance into the kitchen and froze.

Sherlock was peering into his microscope again and this time, he was shirtless, his beltless trousers hanging low, and all that pale, smooth skin was bared beneath the stark lights. Bruises from the night before had bloomed in various places; discoloured continents scattered between oceans of soft skin and if Sherlock had thought John's thoughts were loud before they must be pounding into the back of his skull right now. 

Right. Time to go. 

John grabbed up his basket and made for the laundry room and if his thoughts on sex permeated through three doors and two flights of stairs, well, Sherlock would have to try to find another way to deal with it.

John tried not to think about just how he might go about that. He really did. 

\---


	4. Day Three: Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the length of time between chapters. Real life has been interesting, to say the least.

Day Three: Reprise

The laundry facilities were in the basement at Baker street, a washer and dryer that John shared with the other tenants and Mrs Hudson. They were all quite amicable about it all, politely bowing to the needs of others though John privately thought it was best that Sherlock's wardrobe was mostly dry clean only. 

Most of the other tenants had actual jobs and that left the facilities well available during the day. John sorted his clothes into the machine, dumped in the soap and then slouched down to sit on the cool concrete floor, leaning back against the washer as he tried rather decidedly not to think. 

Obstetrics was not really John's field of study. As it turned out, there weren't too many pregnant soldiers in Afghanistan or at least not any that lingered about to the actual birthing stage. 

Still, he did read up on it occasionally in the medical journals and he recalled at least one study on promoting sleep in new-borns. One recommended technique was to place the infant in their car seat and set it atop a running washing machine. The motion, the liquid rhythm of it soothed them to sleep like that of a dim memory of the oceanic rushing of womb, mingled with their mother's heartbeat.

It seemed plausible though if he had any memories of his time spent in utero they'd naturally long since been lost to time. John couldn't say it was memory so much as a lulling white noise but either way it seemed to work well enough. John spent the better part of an hour drowsing against the machine, listening to the rhythmic thump and whoosh as it travelled through the various cycles. He roused himself long enough to transfer the clothes to the dryer and then resumed the position, ignoring the protesting throb in various bruised parts of his body at the hardness of the floor. There was just enough sound to keep him drowsy and even better, to keep him from thinking.

Or most of his thinking. John suspected the images that were filtering through the toneless thrumming of the dryer couldn't really be called thinking, the way Sherlock had looked, sprawled in his chair with streaks of come striping his shirt, Christ, the flush of colour to his normally pale face. 

_Stop it._

John couldn't get past the irrational belief that he was somehow mentally beaming his sexy thoughts up at Sherlock in a mental interruption which was...all right, yes, it was idiotic, there you have it. Any bloke who kept time with Sherlock was bound to go through a few delusions of idiocy from time to time.

Honestly, it was a touch embarrassing, this constant preoccupation with sex. Rather like being a teenager again, minus the spotty face, and that John would prefer not to endure again, that you very much. Living through the hormonal cocktail of puberty really should only be done once in a lifetime.

Course, there was Sherlock to consider, Sherlock who never did anything the boring way and if there weren't his height and voice to contend with John might have fancied that Sherlock had managed to bypass the original process entirely.

He hadn't, obviously, had gone through the physical changes while avoiding the attention of his peers. Still more than less a virgin, John's brain reminded him helpfully and if John were a better man he'd have some sense of shame at how just the thought made him hard.

Mostly a virgin, except for a bit of a rub off in a dir…clean bathroom, a wank on the sofa and something of a dry run in the direction of a blow job. Virginity was fluid, wasn't that what Sherlock had said? If so there were scads of things John hadn't been cajoled and bullied into trying yet and it would be the grossest of lies to say he wasn't looking forward to each and every one. 

They hadn't even managed to be naked around one another yet, come to think of it, and that alone had to be a minor lapse in the direction of de-virginization. And John, who was fairly certain he hadn't been bisexual even a week ago and _knew_ he hadn't been gay, was suddenly thinking about the little art project above their sofa, the porn collage, and he was imaging Sherlock, all that pale skin bared, perhaps they could leave his shirt on, just unbutton it and Christ, yes--

Um. No.

No. Irrational though the idea was, there would be no beaming sexual thoughts at Sherlock while he was trying to work, John reminded himself. None of that. The best that could come of it would be Sherlock was irritated and the worst might be one of them getting bent over Mrs Hudson's washing machine, putting its stress-relieving effects to the test.

Perhaps that should be vice versa...no, John scolded his brain firmly. 

Nope, today was laundry day and there was absolutely nothing sexy about that. Not when the only pants you were washing were your own. As pleased as he had been that he was managing all this without a heterosexual crisis, he really didn't want to put a homosexual one in its place even if the crisis was as simple as wanting it so damned much. 

The dryer finally shuddered to a stop and John had to stifle a yawn as he dragged up to his feet, stretching his stiff limbs. He winced as it pulled at his ribs painfully, pressing a hand against them until the pain dulled back down. Damn it all, anyway, he didn't want to take anymore paracetamol, he was foggy enough with injury-sleepiness and one did not spend time with Sherlock Holmes without being in top form not matter what a bloke was doing. 

The throbbing eased into something bearable and John took a breath, checked his watch. There, that was a couple hours and some that he'd managed to stay out of the flat and John dearly hoped it was long enough for Sherlock to finish whatever his experiment had been because John made no promises about beaming those sexy thoughts about once he made it back to upstairs. He managed to linger a bit longer, half his toasty warm clothes neatly folded, with a mental promise of a hanger sent in the direction of a few others.

He'd just finished matching his socks, plain white, thank you, no need for a sock index for him, when his phone offered him a cheery little beep. John drew it out of his pocket, frowning down at the little screen. Another text from Lestrade and this one was bordering on the edge of the man having an apoplexy. As a medical doctor, John was starting to have serious concerns about the man's blood pressure. Of course, Sherlock on a bad day could induce a stroke in the saintliest of souls, much less those mere mortals who worked for Scotland Yard. John was giving serious consideration to offering the man a prescription, something he could take on those days when patience was a fantasy and control was as thin as rice paper. Might keep the man from any self-medicating of the nicotine kind.

Lestrade had gone from threats and anger into downright pleading in this one, begging John to corral Sherlock and drag him down to the Yard, with too many capital letters and a frankly horrendous amount of punctuation giving up their lives for Lestrade's text. 

Hm. John really ought to do something about that, shouldn't he? With a flick of his thumb, John went into the phone settings and turned off the text alert sounds before he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

There, much better.

Tomorrow, John decided, sending a mental promise in the direction of New Scotland Yard alongside one of apology for Lestrade. Tomorrow would be soon enough, they'd go down and do the paperwork, take a moment a relive nearly dying beneath a pile of rubble dropped atop them by a mad bomber, Sherlock crushed against him while their lungs had tried to learn how to breathe brick dust and mortar. 

Without the warm throb of adrenaline the memory was skirting at the edge of unpleasant and a flash of memory caught behind his eyes; Sherlock after he'd been hauled out from beneath the collapsed wall, his hair dusted white with plaster and his teeth bloody and John hadn't even felt his bruised ribs just then, oxygen had been a priority, struggling to drag in dust-thick air while two uniformed officers had lugged him out of the thick of it, past the crumpled wall and into clear air and ambulances. 

They'd both still been high on adrenaline at the hospital, John knew, giddy with pain killers and endorphins, case solved, the bomber arrested and taken away, and Sherlock's mouth had tasted like copper and apple juice, sweet-salt kisses—

John blinked, realizing he'd been standing here with a shirt in his hands for far too long, thinking about that first kiss. Which, quite frankly, was considerably longer than he'd thought about kissing Sherlock before he'd done it or even while he'd done it. He still didn't quite remember being the one _to_ do it, it had just happened and it was still happening, they were in this post-semi-virginity stage and…and…and…

Christ, enough. John shook his head and tossed the last few shirts into his basket unfolded. If his brain was determined that he simply had to have some sort of crisis, he could at least have it at the flat.  

He lugged his clean laundry back up the stairs, somewhat gratified that there were no unusual smells trailing out of the flat, and pushed open the door warily to find Sherlock on the sofa, watching the telly. 

That was unusual in and of itself; aside from the news and the occasional crap bit of reality shows, Sherlock was not given to much telly watching. The particular programme he was watching now made John pause on the way up to his room, basket sagging to the floor as he stared at the screen in disbelief. 

"Are you...Scooby Doo? Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes didn't waver from the screen.

John glanced around the flat, taking in the cleaned up experiment from earlier with something close to shock, though their pornographic collage was still firmly above the mantel. He made a mental note to check the new strings that had been added, linking a few more photos. He might not understand Sherlock's methods but if he could glean only a little forewarning it might be useful. "Have you been watching this all day?"

"It seems to be a marathon. I can't imagine how I have missed seeing this show before. _Brilliant_."

John wasn't entirely certain he wasn't still sleeping against the washing machine. "Brilliant? Really? Scooby Doo? I would have thought it would be, I dunno, beneath you?"

"Beneath me?" Now Sherlock looked up, his most scathing gaze directed at John to burn at his shirt as he demanded, "Have you ever seen this show?"

"Erm. Yes. Yes, I have, I mean, it's been some time. Shaggy and Scooby are entertaining enough, I suppose."

The scorn in his eyes flared to volcanic levels, "Of course you would appreciate the antics of those fools. I'm talking about Velma!"

"The woman in orange?" It was like having a conversation with insanity, it really was. 

"Yes, of course, obviously Velma! Aside from her nauseatingly poor taste in friends, she's simply amazing! Brilliant! Her deductions aren't at my level, of course, but for an ordinary person she's gorgeous. Miles above your standard."

Now that stung a bit. Not only was Sherlock salivating over a cartoon woman, he also thought she was smarter than John?

Sherlock was oblivious to John's irritation, his attention refocusing on the telly, as he frowned, "The only area she seems to have a weakness is her preference for glasses over contact lenses. I suspect there must be a medical reason for it, though she might consider surgery in the future. Far too easy to exploit."

"Yes, yes, the cartoon woman should have imaginary eye surgery. You keep up with that, then," John turned on heel, headed towards the kitchen and his abandoned laundry.  He made it all of a step when a hand caught the back of his shirt and pulled hard. Sherlock reeled him in like a particularly loud, complaining trout, forcing John to the sofa next to him and pinning him there with one leg across John's.

"Watch this with me," Sherlock commanded and John bristled instantly. That voice of God thing might work on their clients and the occasional new face at the Yard, but John wasn't so easily coerced.

"I am not sitting here watching Scooby Doo," John said shortly. Particularly not if he was about to spend time having his intelligence compared unfavourably to a bloody cartoon. 

"Yes, you are. Please!" Sherlock added, too sharply for actual manners but just that he'd said it made John subside, warily.

"And why, exactly, should I sit here and watch Scooby Doo with you, of all things."

"I want you to," Sherlock said as though it explained everything. To him, it likely did. "Sit with me and watch telly. That's what normal couples do, isn't it? Watch telly and sit together. Also, you're warm."

It was said more like a sneer than a request, as though John had been the one to suggest an evening of telly watching and snuggling. Not that John would call this snuggling. Snuggling implied some kind of comfort and cosiness, irrevocably linked in John's head with soft curves and breasts. It was not being forcibly pinned against Sherlock's flat chest, long legs on either side of him that meant John couldn't lean properly against the sofa, and bony elbows digging into his shoulders where Sherlock had both arms wrapped tightly around him. 

This was the exact opposite of cosy and John struggled to put a bit of space between them, ignoring Sherlock's increasingly tight grip as he tried to work his way free. There was nothing for it; Sherlock was clinging to him with the hard persistence of a man drowning clutching at piece of driftwood.

"I'm not going anywhere, you tosser!" John said, exasperated. "I'll sit here and watch the cartoons if you just let me settle in a bit."

"Fine," Sherlock said tersely, but he let John pull back a little, rearranging things. Tugging Sherlock down to lay on the sofa, his head propped on a pillow so that John could settle against him properly. Nesting together like a proper set of those little dolls, his head resting comfortably on Sherlock's chest, and John drew Sherlock's arms back around him, let them drop naturally over his shoulders to drape against his back. 

"There, isn't that better?" John murmured, though he rather thought the answer was obvious. Sherlock didn't reply verbally, one hand drifting up John's back to settle warily into his hair, as if he wasn't quite sure of its welcome there. 

And why should he? Virgin, John reminded himself, and why should Sherlock be familiar with the intricacies of cuddling up on a sofa? The sexual aspect was in the forefront of John's mind but it wasn't as though Sherlock would have done anything like this either. Sit together and watch telly like a normal couple, he'd said, and they were nothing like a normal couple-- 

Sherlock had called them a couple. 

Slowly, John took in a breath, let it out. And again. Again, until the sudden, wild flare of _what-the-fuck-are-you-doing_ settled to a low, uncertain murmur at the back of his head. No heterosexual crisis nor a homosexual one but John felt like he was on the border of a Sherlockian crisis and he wasn't about to let that sink its teeth into him while Sherlock was lying beneath him, trying this relationship-couple thing on for size for the first time in his life. 

The cartoon was a mediocre distraction at best, what with Sherlock's fingers scruffing against his hair and his heartbeat a quiet thud beneath John's ear. That low throb was as lulling as the washing machine had been and John was close to drowsing again when Sherlock shifted beneath him, waking him a bit. 

He didn't seem to be able to settle down, not that odd when a fellow considered just who it was he was curled up with. Sherlock was capable of long periods of stillness when he was thinking, though, so why he was practically squirming beneath John now was a bit strange. 

Ah. 

Well, that was a side effect he wasn't accustomed to from his spooning partners. 

John shifted enough to prop his chin up on his hand, peering up beneath his lashes as he took in Sherlock's reddened face. "Having a bit of a problem, are we?"

"You've seen it close enough for better measurements than a bit of," Sherlock muttered resentfully and John grinned. Oh, and wasn't Sherlock lovely when he was surly and turned on.

"Nearly lost an eye, earlier," John said agreeably. "And now its trying to poke a hole through my belly button. Have a care with that, would you, my ribs are bruised enough."

"John," Sherlock said, the faintest edge in his voice. "If you'd like to stop being ridiculous—"

"Says the man watching Scooby Doo." John scooted up enough to cut off any protests with a warm press of lips, sliding his tongue gently over Sherlock's mouth until he opened it and words were lost in a quiet sigh. The cheery laughter drifting from the telly was lost in Sherlock's startled gasp as John nipped at his tongue, teasing at it with his own as Sherlock squirmed beneath him, pushing his hips up pleadingly. 

"Think we were supposed to try something earlier today, weren't we?" John murmured into his mouth, wincing as Sherlock chose in that moment to bite him back. 

"You were supposed to fellate me," Sherlock panted and honestly, that shouldn't have been as arousing as it was. That deep, posh voice vibrating beneath him, through him, and John shivered, leaning back on his knees. 

"Right," John said and he was rather proud that his voice didn't waver at all. "Need to get your trousers off, then."

It should have been disturbing to have Sherlock looking up at him, owl-eyed and pink-mouthed, should have been strange to want to kiss that mouth again, Christ, the things John wanted to do to that mouth but—not now. 

Instead, he slid a hand down Sherlock's chest, resting it low on his belly and feeling the quick-quick rise and fall of it as he breathed, matching the low blurts of John's as he considered just what he was about to do.

"Or, not, if you'd rather," John whispered, his eyes never straying from Sherlock's as he slid down, slowly, and he only looked away to bury his face into Sherlock's lap, felt the hard line of his erection against his cheek through the expensive fabric of his trousers. 

The quiet, choked moan above him was the loveliest of distractions and John nuzzled against linen and cock alike, grazing his teeth on both. He was reaching up, fumbled at the buckle of a fine leather belt before he'd thought about it, strange at this angle and then it was open and so was the zip, sliding Sherlock's trousers down and off and he was bare beneath them. 

Bare feet, bare legs, long, heavy line of his bare cock and John couldn't be bothered with more, just pushed the shirt up and out of the way as he knelt beneath Sherlock's spread legs. 

"You can put your hand on my head, if you like, just don't push down, all right?" John managed and his mouth was watering a bit, he wanted to do this, wanted to try. A second chance to do this properly.

"I...all right," Sherlock agreed and John could have gotten a years' worth of masturbation material from that deep, shaky voice alone.

"Good," John whispered, let his mouth brush against hot, taut skin. He parted his lips, just a bit, flicked his tongue out for a taste. It seemed incongruous that Sherlock could taste like sex, the familiar flavour of it and yet, he did. Slick, clear fluid beaded at the head and John steeled himself, slid his tongue through it and felt that single touch jolt through Sherlock like an electric shock.

John rolled the taste of it in his mouth, brow furrowed as he considered. A bit bitter, a little salt. Not bad, really. He flicked a glance up at Sherlock's face and blinked to see Sherlock was staring at him, his expression rapt. Well, of course he would be. "Like that, did you?"

Sherlock startled like he hadn't realized John was allowed to speak, mouth dropping open and he wet his lips, dragging in a quick, sharp breath. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I, yes."

John's own cock gave a little leap at the obscenity, God, wasn't that a thing to hear dropping from Sherlock's posh mouth?

He leaned in, took another lick and again, Sherlock jerked beneath him, knees bobbing up and then flattening down again almost instantly as Sherlock caught himself. A hand settled lightly on John's head, pushing into his hair and John sighed a bit, felt Sherlock flinch as his breath gusted over wet skin. 

John licked his lips, followed the soft pressure of Sherlock's hand down. He let the flared head rub against his lips, smearing them with slickness before he finally parted them and allowed Sherlock to push a bare inch inside. Just that little bit felt enormous and John swallowed hard, struggling to work his tongue beneath to cover his teeth. No biting, right, no teeth at all, this might be both their first blowjobs in one way or another but John wanted rather desperately for it to be a good one, at least for Sherlock.

Sucking, there was supposed to be sucking and John gave that a tentative go, managed a brief moment before he lost suction with a loud, awkward pop. The hand on his head flexed, nails grazing his scalp and John pulled back to lick an apology against tautly drawn skin, working his tongue ineptly beneath the foreskin.

Christ, what was he doing? Trying to give his…whatever Sherlock was to him, John wasn't even certain anymore, trying to do this, he was licking at Sherlock's cock, he was trying and—

The hand in his hair flexed again and this time the nails dug in almost painfully. John winced and looking up was automatic. 

Fucking God.

Sherlock was sprawled against the arm of the sofa, his head thrown back and the smooth, pale line of his throat was begging for teeth to mark it, for a mouth to suck possessive bruises into it. His mouth was open and through the open neck of his shirt John could see his chest rising and falling with short, frantic breaths. His face was tight, eyes clenched shut, sweat glistening in a fine sheen and just then John wanted him more than he would have ever believed possible. No idle fantasy, no half-forgotten dream was near as desirable. 

The hand that wasn't trying to get a hold on John's head was across the back of the sofa, clenched into a fist, his knuckled bleached white from pressure and John's eyes caught on that, watched the flex of his fingers as Sherlock struggled beneath him for breath. 

"John," Sherlock pleaded and he startled, realized he'd stopped doing much of anything, slowly dipped his head again and let Sherlock's prick breach his mouth again. A bit deeper this time and he kept his tongue pressed hard beneath it, guided it to brush the roof of his mouth. 

He had to stifle a giggle, it tickled a bit but the sound Sherlock made beneath him, the sudden tension in his thighs as John took a flustered breath through his nose and then tried again to suck was heady. He was really doing this, managing it, he was, and he took it a bit more, swallowed hard around the heavy thickness resting on his tongue.

Sherlock groaned, shifting, and John felt a bare foot draw up the back of his thigh and over his arse, the curve of a calve settling into the small of his back, holding him in. Trapping him and John was ruefully aware that he now he really was caught one way or another. 

It was difficult to mind, that, not with Sherlock trying not to squirm beneath him as John again sucked hesitantly, let Sherlock slide out until he was almost gone and then taking him in again. Almost too deep that time and he quickly wrapped a hand around the base. To his surprise, having a brace made it easier, helped him let Sherlock press his cock into the warm, slick pressure of his mouth up to the obstruction of his hand.

There was a rhythm to it, a sex rhythm, and John was drooling a bit, the hand he had wrapped around the shaft was wet with his own spit. His jaw was starting to ache, the bump of cock against the back of his throat was an odd awkwardness that made him swallow away a gag and Sherlock was bloody well coming apart beneath him. 

Both hands were on John's head and if they weren't quite holding his head still so that Sherlock could fuck up into John's mouth it was a close thing. There was a heel digging sharply into his side, the leg it was attached to was tight against John's back, and Sherlock was sobbing out little gasps and whimpers, hands flexing painfully and it was John's only warning before a hot spurt of bitter fluid rushed over his tongue. He nearly choked, struggling to breathe through his nose as Sherlock arched hard beneath him, ignoring the frantic grip John had on his hips as he tried to hold him down. It was too late to do anything but ride the hard wave of it along, swallowing as much as he could, warm trickles escaping and trailing down his chin. Sherlock was shuddering through it, jerking spasmodically and John held on to him, thumbs stroking the jutting hollows of his hipbones until Sherlock sagged back down into the cushions, trembling like…well, like the virgin he very nearly was. 

The hands on his head loosened and fell away. John pulled back, let Sherlock's cock slip free of his mouth and he swiped the back of his hand automatically over his mouth, only succeeding in smearing the wet mixture of semen and spit over his lips. 

"Don't," Sherlock whispered and he grabbed at John pulled him back down, his mouth moving frantically over John's. Licking him, sharing the taste of himself between them and John huffed out a strangled laugh, God, he'd, he'd really, he'd done it and—

"Let me," Sherlock's mouth never stopped moving, words blurred into John's lips, against his chin, "Let me touch you, John, please."

Sherlock's hands were as clever as his mind, yanking open John's trousers and he gasped aloud as Sherlock suddenly had two hands wrapped around him, moving with possessive ease, stroking John with growing familiarity. It was all too much, he was already too close and John came with a harsh groan, the taste of Sherlock still vivid on his tongue as he shuddered and spilled over the cool, large hands moving over him.  

They were both a smeary, sticky mess between them, skin clinging damply and the sofa was mired in sweaty bodies and ruined clothes. John paid none of it any mind, sank down to sprawl across Sherlock's mostly naked body, noting with some bemusement that both of them still had their shirts on. He even still had his trousers on, tangled around his thighs like a hobble. Beneath his cheek, Sherlock's shirt was sodden with sweat and all John wanted to do was knot his hands into it and drag it up against his face to inhale it all. 

Christ. 

"That was somewhat different than I had expected," Sherlock said, quietly, rumbling beneath John's ear and he choked out a laugh. 

"Yeah," John agreed, blurrily. "Yeah. Yes." His lips were a bit sore, a faint ache in his jaw lingered and salt was still heavy on his tongue and he was completely unprepared for what Sherlock said next.

"Now that you've managed it, would you be agreeable to me trying that on you?"

God. John swallowed hard and closed his eyes. God, Sherlock.

"Tomorrow." John croaked out and Sherlock hummed thoughtfully beneath him, his hands drifting back to John's hair as though they belonged there. 

John was starting to think perhaps they did.

\----


	5. Day Four

* * *

It was the doorbell that pulled John from sleep, on that point he's quite sure. Later than he's used to waking, the normal pour of sunlight through his window was oddly muted and John was trying to drag his eyes open, the loud buzz from the door as eye-wateringly irritating as the hum of a mosquito. To his bleary eyes the room around him was simply wrong, none of his things where he'd left them and there was a line of warmth against his back, breath tousling his hair and—

Oh, right. Sherlock. 

John dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan. Christ. He was in Sherlock's room, where the two of them had stumbled last night after—his brain stalled a bit on the word, his not-a-homosexual–crisis a bit closer to the surface when he wasn't quite awake but John forced it past. After last night's _blowjob_ and consequent snuggling on their sofa. Afterward they'd barely parted long enough for a scrub up before falling into bed together and it woke John up a little more to realize Sherlock was still in the bed with him. Still in bed and still asleep and one of his hands seemed to be intent on an adventure of its own because sometime in the night it had crept into John's pyjama bottoms and wrapped itself round his cock in a lazily possessive hold. 

Well, he didn't have to be a detective to deduce just what part of his body Sherlock liked best. 

The bell buzzed again, a long, droning hum and John groaned. Mrs Hudson must have popped out and whoever it was, be they client or deliveryman, seemed relentlessly determined. Nothing for it then and John made to get out of bed and either sign for a package or give someone a heave out to the street. 

That was what he _intended_ to do. Sherlock, asleep or otherwise, disagreed vehemently by tightening every part of himself that he'd draped over John in the night to a painful degree, his arm around John's chest digging into his bruised ribs and, more importantly to John's panicked mind, the hand on his prick turned into a grip like a woodsman might take on an axe handle. Like a mountain climber might take on a rope. Really, like any grip a man might take on something that wasn't his lover's cock and John went still with a kind of muted terror, frozen until Sherlock's grip eased. 

Again, the bleat of the doorbell and John blew out an irritated breath as whoever it was leaned on it for a good ten seconds. 

"Christ, give me a minute," John muttered as he contemplated escape without imminent castration. "Sherlock?" he tried, and when that resulted in nothing but a sleepy snore, he jostled his bed mate with an irritated elbow. "Sherlock, wake up!"

A grumpy, snorty little breath against his ear and despite everything, John couldn't help smiling as Sherlock snarled out a rusty, "What could possibly require me to get up at this god-awful hour? Go back to sleep!"

John trailed his fingers lightly over Sherlock's hand and ignored the bright throb of heat that came from it moving, shifting instinctively in a much more familiar way. "Sherlock, I realize you're attached to it, but so am I and in a much more visceral fashion, so if you'd let go long enough for me to piss and answer the door, I'd say thank you very much."

Breath turned into a damp kiss at the nape of his neck and John shivered, struggling to keep his eyes from drifting closed. Irritation had shifted and Sherlock said, sleepily, "You have to bring it right back."

"Cross my heart. Now bloody well let go."

He only felt a twinge of regret as Sherlock did, scrambling out of the bed and he snagged a dressing gown from the hook on the door, shrugging into it despite the fact it was too long and the sleeves hung past his fingertips. John rather preferred rolling them up then answering the door with his cock at the fore, waving cheerily at whoever was leaning on the bell. 

* * *

The uniformed officer at their door looked young enough that John thought it possible he'd joined Scotland Yard as recently as that morning. That fact wasn't quite as important to him as what his presence on the front step of 221B meant. 

Namely, that Lestrade was in more than a bit of a strop with them. 

"Good morning," John said politely. The lad was hardly taller than he was, gangly and sweating in his heavy uniform as he squirmed, cheeks flushed ruddy. 

"Detective Inspector Lestrade sent me down," he blurted, "Asked me to issue a…a…search warrant."

"Did he?" John asked, surprised. Lord, he really was chuffed off, wasn't he? He couldn't help but wonder just what this fresh blood had done to get stuck bringing it down. 

"Yeah," The lad stood up straight. "I volunteered to bring it," he said proudly, wilting slightly as he added, "Lots of blokes did but Lestrade said just one would do, no need to waste the petrol."

"Right," John nodded, understandingly, "Mind if I see it then?"

"Oh, right, right," the lad stuttered, fumbling through his pockets before thrusting a somewhat rumpled and official looking letter at him. John opened it and skimmed down to see…illegal possession of human remains, really? Oh, he was bloody furious then, picking the one thing most likely to be true. 

John sighed, "Shall I phone him and let him know Sherlock and I will be around before lunch?"

The lad nodded eagerly, his too-large hat shifting over his brow.  Christ, John thought he might own socks that were older than this boy. 

"Like some tea before you head back to the Yard?" John offered, politely. Might as well let him see the flat if he was going to have a decent story for the blokes back at the Yard. 

The young man's eyes rounded like chicken eggs. "No, sir!" He blushed miserably as John raised his eyebrows, peering past John at the staircase as though he expected a trail of body parts to be leading a bloody path to the door of their flat. "No, I read it on my way here."   

Oh, honestly. It was a bit ghoulish to keep body parts in the fridge, true enough, but it wasn't as though they were grating ears over their pasta. 

* * *

By the time John shooed the Boy Detective away and gone back upstairs, Sherlock was already up and rustling about in his room. Probably already deduced what was going on and John was frankly relieved that it didn't seem like he was going to have to physically drag Sherlock down to the yard. Sulking and insults, he could handle. Hauling Sherlock out by the ear was more humiliation than he wanted in the morning before tea. 

Speaking of, he put the kettle on before going up to his own room in search of clothing. Best they go down early and get this over with before they had a fleet of officers tromping around the flat. Lestrade's annoyance was bad enough; they didn't need Mrs Hudson in a strop over all the dirt tracked in on her rugs. 

His laundry from the day before was still folded in the basket, though John winced at the wrinkles in the shirts he'd meant to hang. They'd need ironed first and he opened his closet hopefully, not particularly wanting to add ironing to his schedule before seeing Lestrade. Come to think of it, he hoped Sherlock had something clean to wear that wasn't blood-stained or explosion/experiment tainted. Sherlock's clothes were mostly dry clean only and anything he had that wasn't had never ended up in John's hamper. For all he knew, Sherlock bought a thirty day supply of socks and pants the first day of every month.

His closet was more empty than not, as John had expected but he'd had all the hope of a bloke who'd gotten peckish in late-night opening a fridge they knew to be empty when he'd looked, already resigned to ironing. To his surprise, a jumper that was not his hanging neatly in his closet, very similar to the one recently destroyed by their mad bomber. Similar, yes, but closer inspection proved it to be not the same; for starters it was obvious this one was much nicer and by nicer, John meant expensive. 

Scowling, John snatched it up and stormed down the stairs. "What's this then?" he demanded at Sherlock, who was pouring hot water from the kettle. He was already dressed and John's concerns over his wardrobe were unfounded. Trousers and his dark purple shirt were neatly pressed, his jacket open over it, and was good Sherlock preferred dark clothes. He was already pale enough to practically be translucent. When he wore a white shirt, John felt like he was living with half of the invisible man.

Distractions. John shook it away and held up the jumper. "I don't need you to buy clothes for me."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied absently, spooning sugar into his tea and John gritted his teeth. Bastard.

"We share expenses the same way we share our checks from clients and if that wasn't enough for me I have something called a medical degree, I could get another job." He watched Sherlock rummage through the cupboard, pulling out a tin of the robust tea blend that John preferred in the morning. 

"Are you even listening to me?" John snapped as Sherlock measured out the tea, pausing to sip his own before pouring the hot water over the leaves. 

Sherlock finally stopped and looked at him, lips pressed thin with impatience, "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear the damned jumper."

He wore the jumper. If pressed, he might, grudgingly, admit it was very warm.

* * *

Later, at the Yard, John would have confessed reluctantly that he was glad he'd worn his new jumper because he swore the temperature dropped several degrees when they stepped into Lestrade's office, escorted by a pair of junior officers who might be, if it were possible, even younger than the boy who'd graced their stoop that morning. 

"Sit," Lestrade said curtly, his eyes frosty and John winced. Lacking the rush of adrenaline at the hospital, his visible disappointment was much keener and John sat down quietly, hands folded in his lap and feeling like nothing less than a naughty schoolboy. 

Sherlock flopped into the chair next to him, heedless of both disappointment and wrinkling his clothes.

Lestrade stared at them a moment longer, John squirming and Sherlock disinterested, until he finally said, his voice sharp, "Now that we're done with the round and round, mind telling me why we had to play ring round the rosies to get you two down here?"

"I'm sorry," John began, quietly, "It's my fault, I—"

"You," Lestrade pointed at him, "Shut it. Happy as I am to have you around to keep this one in line, he's a grown man and it's past time he started acting it." Lestrade levelled that arctic gaze on Sherlock, whose expression had shifted from disinterest to indignation, "Had enough of this, Sherlock, I really have."

"I don't owe you—"

"You like the cases but you aren't the one who has to explain to the Chief Inspector why the paperwork isn't done," Lestrade interrupted loudly, "This might be some kind of lark to you all but for some of us it is a job! We have responsibilities and we have to get them done, and if you can't understand that, then I might just have to stop ringing you up when something interesting comes through." 

"You need me," Sherlock snapped out, nearly vibrating with his indignation. John did as he was told and kept his bloody mouth shut, took his medicine. They'd earned a lecture, he knew it, and their reasons for putting off their trip down here probably weren't going to help anyway.

"Muddled along well enough without you before," Lestrade said easily, "Supposed I can do it again."  He drummed his fingers on his desk, taking in his recalcitrant consulting detective. "Or I can keep calling you on the interesting ones and YOU come down the station to do the paperwork the next day. Because if I have to play this game again, if I have to get one more warrant because of you, we're quits and you can go back to whatever cases John's blog drags in for you. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Sherlock gritted out, his pale eyes sullen. Honestly, John was biting the inside of his lip to hold back giggles that no one but him would appreciate because Sherlock had all the sulking capacity of a toddler sent to bed without dessert. 

Lestrade wasn't as clever as Sherlock, but he wasn't the idiot Sherlock accused him of so frequently either, and if he was feeling smug about his success he was at least bright enough to hide it. "What were you doing, anyway, that was so bloody important you couldn't come down and don't even try to tell me you were tucked into bed for your battle wounds. Some kind of experiment?"

John was surprised when Sherlock hesitated, eyes flicked to John's before they skittered away. Pink was high on his cheeks, his fingers twisting together and if it were anyone, _anyone_ but Sherlock, John would have said he was nervous. 

"Not an experiment," Sherlock said, faintly choked.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, looked at John who promptly blushed to his eyebrows as though Sherlock's embarrassment were contagious. His mental agreement that he didn't mind if people knew what he and Sherlock were up to had lasted precisely as long as it took for someone to find out. 

The other eyebrow rose and John knew, he just knew, Lestrade was going to say something and if his conversation with Mrs Hudson was awkward, this was going to be unbearable. 

A blessed knock on the door was all it took to restore John's faith in a higher deity. Lestrade blinked, the moment broken, and called for whoever it was to come in with tones of great impatience. To have Mycroft of all people stride in made John gape and he very nearly gave into the urge to pinch himself, make sure this wasn't some sort of strange dream from the beginning and he wouldn't have been at all surprised to wake up again in his own bed. Possible even Sherlock's. 

"John, always so good to see you and my baby brother," Mycroft said smoothly as he nodded at them, the slightest emphasis on _baby_.

Sherlock stiffened instantly and John understood right then that Mycroft knew.  Mycroft knew he'd been doing filthy, filthy things to Sherlock at all hours of the day and night and whether it's because of a wrinkle in collar of his shirt or the faint scrape of beard burn visible just under Sherlock's chin, John isn't sure and is not about to ask. 

John's been on the receiving end of the 'hurt my baby sibling and I will break your legs' look enough times to recognize it, even when it's as subtle as this one, but it's the first time it has ever been from someone who probably has a team on standby for just such an occasion. 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock bit out and John sighed inwardly. First Lestrade and now Mycroft. Fucking hell, Sherlock was going to be in a strop for days after this and John would be the one heaving the burden on that, wasn't he. And it wasn't even lunch yet.

Mycroft only smiled that oily little grin of his at them, umbrella in hand as he stood over them. "Charming as it is to see you, I am here to speak with the Inspector." He gave Lestrade a nod. 

"Why would you need to see Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded.

"Was wondering that meself," Lestrade blurted, "Not that you aren't welcome for a visit, Mr Holmes, sir, but—"

Mycroft waved that aside, "Honorifics are quite unnecessary from you, Inspector. After all, I'm only a minor public official, and you're a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard."

It was said with such deep, abiding sincerity that it was horrifically rude the way the three other occupants in the room each snorted laughter in their own way, Sherlock's coated with derision. Mycroft's expression never changed from the serene calmness of one used to being surrounded by fools. 

"Right, pull the other one," Lestrade snorted, "What can I do for you then?"

"I have a matter that needs discussing. Privately."

Suddenly, John saw it. Being around Sherlock had done wonders for his observation skills and it was in the way Mycroft's eyes rested on Lestrade, the way the inspector, so fresh from his divorce that the wound was still bleeding, was shifting his paperwork on his desk uselessly. Hints of interest that were so minor and yet so obvious, and John wondered that he could see them…until had another realization. He could see it because it was like looking in a bloody mirror.

Surely Mycroft had something to discuss with Lestrade, no question. And surely it was important, perhaps, perhaps even important enough to warrant a trip down to Scotland Yard. Only it wasn't, was it, it was an excuse, a lark, and now he was here and oozing patient charm when his hooded eyes only wanted Sherlock and John gone, out of the only chairs in the office so that Mycroft could sit and-and-and-

John was alarmed to hear Sherlock laugh next to him, derision replaced with venomous scorn because if John could see it, to Sherlock it must be glaring like a reflection of the sun, "Really, Mycroft? I wouldn't have thought he was to your t—"

"Sherlock, can I speak with you?" John broke in, cutting off the word he knew was coming. Lestrade might be interested but to John's eye he was nowhere near ready to hear it just yet. Sherlock's scowl promised terrible things for John later but that was nothing new, he'd already been bracing himself for the coming storm after he'd seen Mycroft.

Dragged him out of the office and the Major Crimes unit completely, down a hallway lined with drinking fountains and closed doors and only then did he let Sherlock go, turned to face the simmering anger he knew would be there. "All right, then," John took a deep breath and chose to dive right in, "I saw it too and you're not to say anything to Lestrade about it."

"John—" Sherlock nearly sputtered in indignation that anyone would scold him about the proper way to play with his toys.

"I mean it," John said, low, "You let them be."

"I hardly think that—"

"If someone had told me before I was ready to hear it, I would have run, Sherlock," Not quite true, but it might have the effect he wanted, "I would have run, we wouldn't be here right now, none of this would be happening, and I am not about to let you do that to Lestrade." There was no point in begging for mercy for Mycroft.

"Here right now?" Sherlock parroted and he blinked slowly, lashes dipping over the paleness of his eyes and John had to swallow, hard.

"Yeah, here right now, where we are that lets me wake up in your room," John whispered, low, and he saw the flash in Sherlock's eyes, the warmth, the memory, whatever it was. 

"And what will you give me then?"

John blinked. "What now?"

"What will you give me?" Sherlock repeated patiently, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for John to catch up. "You're asking for favours or perhaps bribery and I'd like to see what you're offering in exchange."

"Er," John hadn't really considered it that far. Not that he'd honestly expected Sherlock to do as he asked out of the goodness of his heart, but then, hadn't he? For John, if not for Lestrade, at least, he'd thought…and as though he had anything to offer? Sherlock was the one with…with all the skills and brilliance, and, to be honest, even money as opposed to John who could at best offer stitches when Sherlock manage to get himself injured.  "What do you want?"

The hand on his wrist was not wholly unfamiliar. Neither was being tugged along a corridor, stumbling after Sherlock's too-long strides and being yanked into a room and pushed up against the closed door, John was not quite ashamed to admit that was getting bloody familiar. A flash of a single light bulb illuminated the darkness and John only caught a glimpse of mops and buckets, cleaning supplies, before Sherlock's mouth was on his in a harsh, slick press of lips and teeth. 

"You said tomorrow," Sherlock reminded him, roughly tugging open John's trousers, baring him to hands that were going more familiar by the day and his cock perked up happily against fingers that had held it only just that morning. "It's tomorrow, John."

"Ah, fuck," John bit off as Sherlock dropped to his knees and he was engulfed in the perfect, wet heat of Sherlock's mouth.

How unfair was the universe that Sherlock would prove to excel in this area? Not that John's cock was complaining in the least and somewhere in the back of his mind he resigned himself to hours of gloating.

As it was, at this moment, all John could do is struggle to breath, dragging in gulps of cleanser-scented air because Sherlock had a wicked mouth. Well, he would, wouldn't he, all slick, perfect heat, the press of his tongue against the underside of John's cock as he slid down and oh, Christ, if John came right now, he'd never hear the end of it.

Every third comment would be some ponce about stamina, Sherlock's little error yesterday before notwithstanding, and that was not on. So John kept breathing, biting his lower lip, inhaling through his nose as Sherlock made a soft, contented sound against his cock, humming vibration that nearly jolted John out of his skin. Sweet Christ, he needed Sherlock to do that again. 

He was terrified Sherlock would do that again.

Sherlock pulled off with a wet, indecent little sound, looked up at John with damn lips and uncertain eyes, "Is this…is this all right?"

Of all times for that unending confidence to fail him, "Yeah," John rasped out, let his head fall back against the door with a dull thunk. "Yeah, it's good, Sherlock, please—"

John broke off on a gasp as Sherlock took him at his word, lashes dipping lower as he leaned in, swept his tongue against the head of John's prick, his tongue wriggling against the foreskin in a way that was utterly obscene and absurdly hot. It made John bite his lip harder, tasting hot iron.

The sound Sherlock made was almost worse, a shaky, eager little groan as he took John in deep, sucking with exquisite precision, of course, of course Sherlock would be good at this, would know the right pressure, would weave his internet knowledge with his shreds of experience until he could have John gasping and swearing against a wall in a fucking broom closet at Scotland yard, his hands in tight fists as he struggled to keep from grabbing Sherlock's head and just fucking into that sweet, perfect mouth. 

"Sherlock," John moaned and his own voice sounded foreign, deep and pleading and he felt as much as heard Sherlock's breath catch, felt him draw off to whisper. 

"Say that again," Sherlock breathed, licking at hot, stretched skin, quick, desperate touches before he abruptly sucked John in again, nearly to the base, burying his nose in the curly patch of hair. John hissed out a cry, knees locking up as he tried not to push in, tried to hold still, his fingers making horrible scrabbling sounds against the wall as he tried to cling to something. 

"Sh-Sherlock," John stuttered and Sherlock rewarded him with a slippery flick of his tongue that nearly buckled John's knees. "I'm close, I'm so close, you—" Dimly, he heard the rasping desperation in those words, didn't care, Sherlock could tease him until the end of time so long as he didn't stop, perfect suction around him, a hand between his legs cupping his balls, clever fingers moving over him and John could only concentrate on not biting his lip, jerking hard and Sherlock's hair was crisp beneath his hands, curls twining around his fingers, something to focus on while the light behind his eyes went dim and red.

He couldn't shout out his pleasure, not in this little room that was only barely closing out the rest of the sane world of Scotland Yard. The rest of his mind was split between Sherlock's soft, wet, fuck, perfect mouth and covering his own mouth with his hand to keep the noises he couldn't seem to stop making from traveling all over the building.

Little muffled whimpers as John tried to push his hips up against Sherlock's iron grip, groaning aloud at the feel of Sherlock swallowing around him, Oh, god, he'd actually swallowed, and just the thought made him pulse again, one last slick rush of pleasure and Sherlock pulled off, kissing his softening prick gently.

John sagged down, couldn't have kept standing if another bomber had dumped one more wall in their direction, and Sherlock caught him, guided him down until he was in Sherlock's lap.

"You—" John tried, failed, and kept breathing. Hesitant lips brushed his own and that woke him up enough to tip his head up, offering, and the taste of his own come on Sherlock's mouth was enough to make him shiver, bitter salt and God, Sherlock had—

"Think you can cross that off your little virginity list," John rasped out and he felt Sherlock chuckle. 

"I'll make a notation," he murmured into John's mouth. "First incident of oral sex, giving, cleaning supplies closet, Scotland Yard."

"Should make another column for public sex," John bit Sherlock's lower lip, sucked on it gently.

"What makes you think I haven't?"

He didn't have time to reply to that as Sherlock gave him a little shove, pushing him up to his feet. "Wait," John protested, "You didn’t—"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said with suspicious serenity and John wondered with some dismay what he'd missed. No time to ask now, he had to scramble with his trousers as Sherlock was already opening the door, ignoring John's hissed swearing as he stumbled after him.

For all that there was the faintest hint of pink to Sherlock's mouth, he looked as well put together as ever and John didn't, quite, resent that as they made their way back to Lestrade's office and John tried to discretely get himself into order before they started on the endless paperwork that he was surely about to get stuck with. 

From the looks he received later from Lestrade, the single raised eyebrow from Mycroft as the man nodded his goodbyes, John decided he must have been less successful in his endeavours than Sherlock had.

He worked his way through the stacks of paperwork as Sherlock prowled the office, sullenly obeying Lestrade's stern admonishment to not leave, not touch anything, and definitely not talk to any of the other officers. 

It was going to be a long day. 

* * *


	6. Day Five

* * *

John studied the porn-collage, tracing the pinned-up thread connecting pictures together. Not that he was particularly interested in the pictures themselves but tangled up somewhere in these bits of string and photographs was a path into Sherlock's thought process. Well, at least one of his thought processes, the one currently revolving around their sex life and since John was very much involved with that right now, he was, well, interested. For a number of reasons, some of which he wasn't thinking about too closely.

He touched one blue string, noting that the colour smudged off on his finger. Chalk, perhaps? It was connecting a picture of two blokes who looked rather like they'd stepped out of the gym just long enough for a quick shag before heading back to the weight machines. One had his hand on the other's prick and they were kissing with largely visual application of tongue. 

Another thread, a white one this time leading to a picture of men who were…well. They were fucking weren't they, one fellow on his knees while the other was behind and John pursed his lips, considering. Well, that wasn't very complex, was it, blue threads for pictures in the 'done that' category and white threads for the next in line, he supposed. 

The pink threads gave him a bit of a pause, lord, was that bloke actually—

"The pink string is for plausible activities that don't necessarily have an effect on the known definition of virginity," Sherlock told him, barely glancing up from his newspaper and tea. In less than a minute he would surely declare the paper to be boring but it had his interest for this moment.

"Right," John cleared his throat. "And the yellow ones?"

"Implausible activities," Sherlock said and he almost sounded apologetic. "With all respect to your tenacity, John, there are some positions that I think would require more effort than would be enjoyable."

John squinted at a yellow-stringed photograph. "I'd say. Didn't add them to your chart, then?"

"I'm not interested in simply ticking off boxes, John."

"I never thought you were," John said and he kept his voice mild. His eyes were on the collage, taking in positions and bare skin, but his mind, well, that was on something else. Behind him, he heard the soft chime of porcelain, Sherlock drinking his tea. The rustle of newspaper and perhaps there was something of interest today because normally it would have been tossed in the pile by now; for all his declarations of boredom and uselessness, Sherlock kept the papers for an ungodly amount of time, a habit that had occasionally been useful. 

Behind him, the morning was progressing as normal. 

In his head, John was thinking, wheels turning round and round, and he supposed if there were a hamster in his mind, the poor animal would be gasping after the cheese, staggering along with grim determination. 

It wasn't, quite, silence. Tea cups and newspapers and breathing, and then--

"I don't think I'm as good at sucking cock as you are," John said without preamble. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock freeze, his teacup hovering in the air a moment before he set it back into the saucer with a quiet clink. He closed the paper with brisk finality and banished it to the stack at the end of the sofa, focused all his attention on John. Which, well, that had been what he wanted but John still shifted a little, uncomfortably, aware of the cool floor beneath his bare feet, the faint taste of sweat on his upper lip as he finally gave voice to his thoughts. 

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock said, carefully, and John wasn't fooled. Sherlock hadn't said what a rubbish idea that was; of course John was brilliant at it. No, he had not and if it was true, Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated. 

He gave a little half-shrug. "I just think you made a better job of it than I did. Even in a janitor's closet you were—" John closed his eyes a moment against the memory, Christ, his _mouth_. "—good," he finished, weakly, no use giving Sherlock more ammunition for his ego, was there.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, the little crinkle of a frown forming between his eyebrows, and John stared at that little wrinkle with bemused interest. How unusual for Sherlock not to leap on a faint compliment and instead just sat there, considering. 

"I suppose it's understandable," Sherlock said at last, and the barest trace of hesitancy in his voice had John baffled. "In this area you're as inexperienced as I am. It stands to reason that one of us would exceed the other."

"I suppose it does, at that," John agreed, still confused and then it clicked. Sherlock was trying not to hurt his feelings. He was honestly, truly, trying to be careful about what he said so that John wouldn't feel…what? Inferior? Stupid, perhaps? It was so strange, so oddly touching, that John found himself smiling as he offered, "I could practise a bit more. If you didn't mind."

He watched as Sherlock's throat bobbed when he swallowed, pale eyes widening just slightly and maybe John wasn't the great giver of blowjobs that Sherlock had proven to be but he could still tell which one of them was mostly a virgin, now couldn't he. 

Silently, he leaned back against the sofa, those long, slender thighs splayed open in invitation and John was never one who liked to miss a party. He stepped in, pushing the coffee table back with one foot before he sank down and Sherlock offered him a pillow before he'd even gotten to his knees, one that John accepted with a grateful smile. He got himself settled, wincing a bit as his bad leg offered a twinge of protest, before carefully settling his hands on Sherlock's clothed knees, rubbing the fine material with his thumbs. 

There was already a bulge in the placket of his trousers, testament to the fact that Sherlock's cock didn't much care if the blowjobs were inferior. John leaned down and rested his cheek against it, felt the hard length of Sherlock's erection through the fabric, warmth and growing familiarity. 

One hand settled on the back of John's head, just there, not pushing down, not pressuring, just rubbing lightly at the short hair encouragingly.

John reached up and drew it free, pulling those long fingertips to his mouth and kissed them, tentatively. He licked the pad of his forefinger, and heard Sherlock's breath catch.

Now that was encouraging. Emboldened, he drew the finger into his mouth, curled his tongue around the tip and pried lightly at the nail. Sherlock tasted faintly of salt, mostly flavourless, smelled of the tea he'd been drinking. His finger flexed, slightly, a warm presence stroking softly at his tongue. 

Soft huff of breath. "Yes, just like that, John."

Strange, almost comforting, to be sucking Sherlock's finger, a much slimmer presence than…he could draw it deeply into his mouth, until he could feel the faint tickle at the back of his throat, curve his tongue around it and listen to the soft murmur of encouragement from Sherlock, quiet instruction like he couldn't help offering his conclusions, even now.

"Careful of your teeth—yes, like that. Now harder, a little. Not too fast, don't rush. There," A deep sigh as John swirled his tongue against the tip and was there any use in pretending he didn't know what he was imitating? His mouth was watering, wanting more, wanting something he'd only barely tasted. 

He opened his eyes, looked up at Sherlock and was startled to find him not watching, not at all. His head was lolled back against the cushions, lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. Lips parted, damp, wetter still as he ran his tongue over them while John watched. The hand on his thigh, his other hand, moved, siding to the front of his trousers and while John watched he started stroking himself through the fabric, matching the slow, liquid slide of his finger in and out of John's mouth. 

He moved without thinking, catching Sherlock's hand and let his finger slide free with a wet pop, skittering down his lips and chin in a wet slide. Sherlock's eyes opened, heat gleaming from them. 

"Then do it," Sherlock said, challenging, dry and rough and it sent a hard jolt up John's spine. 

He shuffled forward a bit, working at the fastening of Sherlock's trousers with defiant clumsiness, batting Sherlock's hand away when he attempted to help. It wasn't as strange as it had been to be working the buttons loose, opposite his own, but his hands were trembling, shaking with eagerness and John had to struggle them free, fabric finally parting, zip sliding down. Silk pants, of course, John was distantly amused, pulling the waistband out enough to tug them down, letting Sherlock's erection bob free. 

Oh. John took a shaky breath, and all right, it was still a little strange to be face to face with another man's cock. Long, slender, so much like Sherlock himself and how strange it was to see Sherlock so sodding normal. Hard and leaking, slick fluid at the head, his prick all but begging for a touch. Sherlock had both hands on his own thighs, kneading them with barely restrained eagerness. Waiting. 

It was far past the time for hesitation and John leaned forward to close his mouth over the head. Tasted slick salt at the tip, sucked it away and pushed his tongue beneath the foreskin in a search for more. If there was another way he was supposed to do this, John didn't know it. He just slid his mouth down, taking as much as he could in one long, hot slide. Sherlock arched a bit and moaned, his legs falling further apart, letting John crowd in between them. 

"John," Sherlock groaned, his voice cracking, creaking like a poorly oiled door. "Like that, very good. Use your tongue, like before."

It was more difficult than with a slimmer finger, trying to work his tongue against the thicker invasion of Sherlock's prick. Curling it around the head, rubbing it under the sensitive ridge. He could feel it when he did something Sherlock liked, in the faint catch of his breath, the scrape of his nails against his trousers. 

Easier to listen to Sherlock talking above him and he should have known Sherlock couldn't be quiet, even during sex. A low, constant murmur, _Yes, like that, yes, John, slower, not too deep yet, you don't have to—ah! Oh, fuck, John, that's perfect, your…your_ mouth.

It was like he had a Sherlock-filter in his head that carried those words straight down to his own cock, and John rubbed a shaky hand over the front of his own trousers, palming himself. He kept thinking it was enough, that he'd taken Sherlock as deeply as he could and then found he could take a bit more, swallow a bit more down, until Sherlock was bumping lightly against the back of his throat, a little uncomfortable but so much more arousing, swallowing against it to feel Sherlock draw in a sharp, startled breath. 

Shocked him, John thought with near delirious glee. A damp, shaky hand slid down his head, cupping the back of his neck and Sherlock's timbre changed into stuttering urgency, "John, I—I'm—"

By the time John realized what it meant, the first burst of hot semen on the back of his tongue, salt-bitter and startling. He managed to swallow this time, Sherlock hissing in a long groan through his teeth, legs quivering on either side of John's head and the hand resting there wasn't holding him down and yet, John obeyed it anyway, riding out every quivering twitch until Sherlock finally relaxed back against the cushions with a sigh. 

He let Sherlock go gingerly, sitting back on his heels and raising a hand to his mouth. His intention was to wipe his sleeve over his lips, clean up at least a little of the spit-slickness and he might have if Sherlock hadn't slapped his hand away with startling speed, grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him up. 

"Sher—" John started, words smothered beneath Sherlock's lips and if he'd had any protests they would have been lost in the urgency of his mouth, his tongue licking into John, sweeping away the lingering taste. The hands at his belt were infinitely more clever than his own had been, tugging open his trousers and Sherlock had a hand wrapped around him before John even realized he was laying back on the sofa, Sherlock looming over him and his gaze on John's face was fierce, avid, taking in every bit of his expression. 

Arousal, he was surely seeing, surprise. Desperation in the line of John's teeth digging into his lower lip, eagerness in the shift of his hips into Sherlock's near savage grip around his cock, stroking with startling expertise, or not so surprising, not really. Sherlock had always been able to read him, knew his every emotion, every thought like a familiar, dog-eared book. That Sherlock should know just how to touch him right now only seemed logical and John braced his feet against the cushions and rocked up into the tight clasp of Sherlock's hand.

"There," John panted, a thin, reedy word, "There, just…there…I…Sherlock!"

The whine in his voice would have been humiliating had he been with anyone else. With Sherlock, it only seemed perfect and John cried out, arched up a final time and came, hot pulses over Sherlock's hand and everything seemed distant, hazy, his clothes sticking to him sweatily and Sherlock nuzzling at his temple, his lips a soft, oddly tender touch.

"You do just fine, John," Sherlock murmured and his voice cracked, caught.

"I'm getting there," John agreed, shakily, and if Sherlock deduced something else from that, John couldn't say he was wrong.

* * *

John had managed to tick laundry off his weekly to-do list, but doing the shopping was looming on it with foreboding gloom. Sherlock would have been content to eat takeaway seven days a week, or more likely four since he'd probably simply forget to eat on the other three days. John, on the other hand, liked simpler faire from time to time. Also, they were nearly out of tea and while Sherlock didn't seem to care much what he was eating, he was excruciatingly particular about his beverages. 

John always did the shopping so he didn't think much about mentioning that he was off to the shops until Sherlock came back with, "Wait a moment, I'll come with you."

Anyone else would take that as a simple statement from a mate. John examined that sentence with a calm sense of panic he knew, from experience, was much like the one felt when faced with an armed bomb. Sherlock, at the shops, with him. John would need every finger and toe he possessed, along with Sherlock's and their limbs added in to count all the ways this could go wrong.

Turned over a number of options in his head that might get him out of this and he was very close to simply throwing himself at whatever passed for Sherlock's mercy and just begging him not to come when Sherlock turned back to him as he shrugged into his coat and gave him a smile. Not his wretched, plastic, aren't I clever smile, or his look, I'm just a normal human being smile. No, this was his honest to God, real smile, just a warm curve of lips and a sense of genuine happiness sent in John's direction. And John melted under it like a sweet left out in the July sun. 

"Let's go, then," John said, weakly, and followed behind Sherlock as he bolted down the stairs.

* * *

Once, some years ago, John had offered to do the shopping for a good friend of his. She'd had an appointment and he'd take along her three year old when he popped down to the shops. He was a doctor, how difficult could it be?

Three hours of shouting later had answered that question for him and John was quite sorry to say that not all of the screaming had been from the child. He hadn't known there were so many ways a bloke could shout a name until he'd been calling it after a toddler and strapping her into the trolley had only localized the yells. In the end, she'd hung from the safety belt straps like a dead body, wailing after doll that John had refused her and it was only the glares of other parents in the shops that had weakened him. He'd finally bought the toy for her and the silence had been glorious. Ten minutes later she'd abandoned it to play with the box.

If anyone had asked him to speculate what shopping with Sherlock would be like, John would have guessed that would be a perfect example. 

He wasn't quite ashamed to admit he was wrong. Sherlock was surprisingly well-behaved, hardly even acknowledging the other shoppers which if it wasn't polite it was at least not horrifically rude. He examined a few packages silently, occasionally adding one or another to the basket, and John only caught him rearranging a section once. He'd explained to him that the stores followed a specific planogram on where to put their products, agreed that it wasn't based on a logical and Sherlock had accepted that without even a minor sulk.

They were nearly done when John paused to consulted his list and realized he'd forgotten to grab brown sauce back in the last aisle. "Ah, damn," John muttered. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

Not even thirty seconds, John was sure of it. He'd been gone not even thirty seconds and when he turned back into the aisle both cart and Sherlock were gone. The shopping gone missing would have been an aggravation and John would have either started from the beginning or just grabbed a few essentials and gone home in exasperation. Sherlock missing was an entirely different kettle and John sighed inwardly, hoping that perhaps he'd gotten the urge to look at the tea.

The tea aisle offered him nothing, and neither did any of the others until John walked to the last row that had pharmaceuticals. Or rather, the aisle that had the condoms and that was where Sherlock had been drawn along with their trolley of groceries, John was happy to see. It was somewhat more disconcerting to see that there were already a number of discreetly packaged boxes in it.

"Find something interesting?" John said with forced nonchalance. Gingerly, he picked one up and noted that it had three different kinds in one box. Convenient. He counted nearly twenty boxes in all, times twelve, and that was---

"Sherlock," John said through his teeth, forcing patience that he did not feel, "Not that I'm not flattered by your faith in me, but we wouldn't be able to use all of these before they expired."

"Hmm? Oh, of course not, we only need one from each box."

"One?"

"The only possible way to deduce which brand we prefer is to experiment with each one."

"Sherlock, I am not buying twenty boxes of condoms."

That got his attention. "What? Why not?"

"Because I come to this shop twice a week. I am not going through the checkout and looking at the clerk while she rings me up for two hundred condoms." He wouldn't even consider trying to ring them up through the chip and pin machine.

"Two hundred and forty."

"No, I—no." Gathered them up, shoving them into Sherlock's arms. Several boxes clattered to the floor and John didn't care, didn't stop until every box was out of his cart and away from his tea and jam. "If you want to buy them, go on ahead, but you can do it without me."

"John, you're a grown man and a doctor!"

"I don't care!" John hissed, "I am not about to—"

"Are you ashamed of me?" Sherlock interrupted bluntly and John went still, looked back at him. Six foot of grown man standing there with his arms full of condom boxes, more scattered at his feet. Meeting his eyes impassively and he would have been utterly expressionless to anyone who wasn't John.

"Sherlock—" John sighed. 

"You said you shop here all the time," Sherlock pointed out coolly, "You likely know most of the clerks here, possibly even by name, and you don't wish to be seen buying condoms with me. The likeliest conclusion is that you don't want any of them to know we're in a sexual relationship and from that we can deduce that you're ashamed of me."

It was on the tip of his tongue to protest that Sherlock was simply wrong, that he was drawing his conclusions from an absurdly select amount of information. Only Sherlock didn't take being told he was wrong very well at all and words never suited him when evidence pointed otherwise. Nothing John could say was going to make this go right. 

So he chose a different route. Stepped up to him, carefully avoiding stepping on any of the boxes, leaned up on his toes, and gave him a kiss. They weren't so familiar with kissing yet that it was anything like smooth or easy and being separated by six inches in height and twelve boxes of condoms wasn't helping. Sherlock's mouth was still and set beneath his own, unmoving, and John persisted, grabbed on to Sherlock's upper arms for balance. He wasn't the genius that Sherlock was but neither was he stupid and John knew very well that it had nothing to do with clerks or shops and everything to do with John's perceptions. Sherlock didn't give a damn what anyone thought of him…except John. 

A long moment, two, and Sherlock's mouth softened and he leaned into John. He let it go on a minute longer, resigned to the fact that the shop security tapes would likely be in Mycroft's hands within the hour. 

Finally, he pulled back, blotting at his lips with the back of his hand before he said, clearly, "I am not ashamed of you. It's not about you, all right? It's not anyone else's business what we get up to but that doesn't mean I'm ashamed to be doing it. Buy one box and we’ll go from there, all right?" 

Sherlock's lips were still damp and John forced himself to look away before he gave in to the urge to make the security tapes more interesting. He could hear it when Sherlock swallowed, hard, and said quietly, "All right."

"Let's put these back then," John stooped down, hands bumping into Sherlock's as they both grabbed at the same boxes, "And put them where they go, not where you think they should be."

It took the less than a minute to get them put back and John had turned away, walking back into the shop proper when he heard the clatter of two boxes dropping into the cart. He turned back to offer a protest until he saw what they were. 

"Right," John muttered under his breath. Condom and lubricant. Right. 

"There's probably a better selection online, anyway," Sherlock added, almost absently, his attention already wandering off to the line of pasta boxes in the next aisle. He let Sherlock push the trolley and didn't think about the two little boxes in it, didn't let his heterosexual crisis loom up in the back of his mind as it demanded to know just how those two items were going to be put to use. As though the pictorial porn collage above his mantel hadn't provided him with plenty of mental possibilities. 

Not the time for it. John led them back to the produce section for some fresh fruit and veg before the two of them ended up with scurvy from too much takeaway. 

 

* * *


End file.
